


Spoonful Of Sugar

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gold Sick Thorin, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, emotional whiplash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:40:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: “You see, before we all escaped from Mirkwood, I might have… done something.  To Thranduil.  Something rather petty and immature and not at all respectable.”In which laughter cures greed, humiliation trounces pride, and even the smallest of pranks can change the course of the future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I meant for this to be short and funny with just this scene and nothing more. But as you can see by the chapter count… my muse decided it wouldn't be satisfied until I explored all the ways this would screw with canon. The rest of the story is mostly finished, just editing and fine tuning some things, but I figured this first chapter is contained enough to stand on its own, and the mental image was too hilarious for me NOT to share.
> 
> For anyone who might be concerned, there are NO possessive elements to the gold sickness scenes in my fic! While in the throes of it, Thorin may be paranoid and overprotective and prone to irrational rages, but any intimacy (kissing, etc.) will only occur when he's completely lucid or actively resisting the sickness.

“I am listening.”

Bilbo winced.  And he was fairly sure he wasn’t the only one, all of them forced to stand there and watch as the negotiation between Bard and Thorin deteriorated rapidly, each side bitterly accusing the other of wrongs beyond their control.  Bard's voice drifting through the tiny window in the battlements sounded weary and desperate, laced with outrage at being denied such simple things as food and medicine and shelter against the cold.  For that was _all_ the bowman wanted, it was so plain to see, and the demand for fair settlement was only a means to achieving those things for his people.  For his children.  Those poor children who even now must be shivering in the streets of Dale and waiting for their father to return with a miracle.

Thorin should understand.  Thorin _did_ understand.  He knew very well what it was to have his home razed by dragon fire and be thrust into leadership of a wandering and penniless kingdom.  Laboring to provide for his kin, reduced to begging for what scraps the world might spare, enduring mockery and worse for the crimes of his forebears.  Only days ago, Thorin had looked upon Laketown and sworn to see it restored to its former glory, the great wealth of the mountain shared equally, and Bilbo refused to believe his words had been empty.

 _I want him back_ , Bilbo thought and couldn't be sure if he was praying to the Valar or cursing the dead dragon in the lake.  Everything in Bilbo _ached_ to seize this imposter and shake him by the ears until the dratted gold sickness released him from its clutches.  _His_ Thorin would never be so callous and dismissive, so willfully blind to the needs of others.

"Thorin…"

But when he made to step forward, Balin gripped his arm and gave it a squeeze, shaking his head.  Bilbo frowned, but whatever reckless courage had flared to life in his heart flitted away again like a wisp of fog, and he subsided with reluctance.  Thorin hadn't seemed to hear his weak plea, in any case.  He refused to hear much these days, always keeping to his own council and dark thoughts and forcibly quelling any dissent or appeals to reason with blistering eyes and a voice like thunder.  The King Under The Mountain would do as he pleased, and woe unto any who stood in his way.

"Begone!  'Ere our arrows fly!"

With Thorin now standing to the side, they could all witness Bard's fury as he struck the stone and spat a slew of curses at their Company.  Well-deserved curses, in all honesty.  But instead of heeding Thorin’s command, Bard paused and glanced over his shoulder.  His brow furrowed in confusion… or perhaps it was annoyance.

"King Thranduil comes.  He would speak with—"

Thorin twisted his lips into a snarl.  "I’ll not hear any words from that silver-tongued oathbreaker!  Send him away!  If he shows his face here, I'll return him to his kin in a pine box!"

"Would that I could be rid of him so easily," Bard muttered, and Bilbo realized with a trickle of dread that the bowman wasn’t looking at the dwarves any longer.  No, now he was looking _at_ _Bilbo_ and scowling most bitterly.

"Actually, _Lord of Silver Fountains_ , Thranduil said nothing of speaking with _you_.  The one he comes for is the halfling.”

Heads turned, every single one of them, and Bilbo froze like a startled rabbit.  Oh dear… he really ought to have seen this coming, he should have known.  When the army of elves had first been spotted in Dale, Bilbo had consoled himself with the weak hope that Thranduil might not be among them.  Perhaps he had sent another in his place as their commander, either the prince Legolas or one of his many loyal guards and retainers.  Bilbo had even entertained the ludicrous notion that this was an entirely _different_ elven army that had _not_ recently come from Mirkwood, and until now that had been his best and only chance.

For if there was one thing Bilbo feared in this world—aside from riddles in the dark and a certain stone burning a hole in his pocket—it was Thranduil's wrath upon learning that the specter haunting his halls for nigh on a month had been nothing more than a very stressed, very agitated, very _peeved_ hobbit.  A hobbit who had let his invisibility go to his head in those last days and decided to make his Took cousins proud in the most petty and immature fashion possible.

"Best prepare yourself, Mister Baggins," Bard said.  "I'd say he's displeased, but that'd be an understatement.  I honestly think he's out for blood after what you did, and he cares not who stands in his way."

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," Bilbo mumbled.  And he only realized he _was_ mumbling once Bard moved out of sight and the Company erupted around him.

“I don’t understand,” Ori fretted.  “What’s he want with our burglar…?"

"—brings an army to our door and expects _us_ to bow to his whims—!” Gloin raged.

“Blow to his shins?” Oin said loudly.  “Aye, that might do it!”

"Bilbo, have you got any idea what he's on about?” Kili demanded.

"Ah," Bilbo said and sucked in several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm himself and make his voice heard over the onslaught of questions and demands.  "Y-Yes, yes alright, I'll explain!  Just be quiet, I'm trying to… ohhh, I think I might be sick…"

Nori snatched Bofur's hat off his head and offered it up.  "Here, use this."

"Oi!"

"What?  Have you seen any buckets lying around?"

Balin shoved those two aside so he could grasp Bilbo’s shoulder.  "Easy, laddie.  Easy.  Just tell us.  What does Bard speak of?  Is it something that happened in Mirkwood?  When the rest of us were locked away?"

"Well, ah… yes, actually," Bilbo stammered, though he hardly paid attention to his own words.  He was too busy straining for any sounds from beyond the battlements, any sign that Thranduil was drawing near.  "See, the thing is… the _thing is_.  I'd figured out about the barrels a few days before actually breaking you lot out.  I was waiting for that feast, you see, I needed a time when the guards would be elsewhere, so there was quite a lot of biding my time and twiddling my thumbs.  And… and after an entire month of crumbs for meals and hardly sleeping a wink, and… and watching the way he was treating all of you, I suppose I just… I lost my temper.  A bit."

Dwalin snorted and crossed his arms.  "Lost your temper?  You?  What, did you write him a strongly-worded letter of complaint?"

"What, _no!_ " Bilbo said and puffed up indignantly.  "No, that's not what I did!"

"Did you pour out his best bottles of wine?" Dori asked.

"Maybe he nicked his mother's doilies?" Bofur mused.

"Seduced his Captain of the Guard?” Nori suggested.  “Oh wait!  That was Kili.”

" _Oi!_ "

" _ENOUGH!_ "

The Company instantly shut their mouths and parted for their king, an unnatural silence falling over them.  Bilbo despised that silence, rife with tension and uncertainty and utterly devoid of the warmth and cheer he had come to know from his friends.

But when Thorin stalked closer, when Bilbo looked up into his face, he had to catch his breath.  For the glaze of madness had abated, just a little, just briefly.  But just _enough_.  That fearsome and regal mask had fallen away, the King Under The Mountain cast aside.  All that was left was _Thorin_ , fully present in the here and now, and looking at him with such naked concern that it tore at Bilbo’s heart.

_It's happened again, just like with the acorn, take this chance, take it now, try to reach him, don’t let him slip away again…_

Somewhere outside, Bilbo heard the twang of a bowstring followed by a whistle of air and a muffled _thwump_ at his feet.  An elvish arrow quivered on the ground between him and Thorin, shot over the rampart with no warning whatsoever.  Bilbo knew it was no mistake that the arrow had missed.

"Halfling," Thranduil drawled from beyond the battlements.  "I know you are there.  Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, was it not?  Come forth.  We have _unfinished business_ to discuss."

Bilbo flushed and then paled, so rapidly that the rush went to his head and he stumbled back a step back.  Someone steadied him as he put a trembling hand to his mouth, fighting back nausea and the urge to whimper like he was about to face a second dragon in the course of a week.  Actually… Bilbo might have _preferred_ a second dragon.

Thorin spoke a soft word in Khuzdul, and Bilbo found himself bodily picked up and shuffled off to the side.  Wrapped up in a four-way hug with Dori and Ori and Bofur, concealed by a solid wall of Bombur and Bifur and Gloin, then a _second_ wall of Nori and Oin and Fili and Kili, he was undoubtedly safe from any more arrows.  Though Bilbo estimated he had roughly ten minutes before he began to suffocate.

"Stay back with the Company," Thorin said, and Bilbo wished he dared roll his eyes at the redundancy of that command.  But the situation was too fragile and not solely because of the angry elf on their doorstep.  Thorin turned back to the dwarves, meeting their eyes one by one.  For once acknowledging them as individuals, not merely extensions of his will.  "He will _not_ have our burglar,” he said with almost maddened ferocity.

Bilbo’s protective turtle shell formation answered with a soft chorus of _ayes_.  Thorin gestured for Dwalin and Balin to join him at the little window in the battlements, though all three were very careful not to present themselves as a target.  Bilbo craned around Bombur’s girth until he could glimpse Thranduil’s pale and unamused countenance peering in at them.  He gulped.  Thranduil certainly _looked_ displeased, in the haughty and derisive way that elves often did.  Only the thinness of his lips betrayed the depths of his wrath seething just beneath the surface.

Or maybe it was the change of attire causing him to appear so ominous, the ostentatious crown having been abandoned in favor of a lovely green cloak with a rather large hood.

_Oh dear._

“So,” Thorin said, deceptively calm, "once again you stand before Erebor with an army at your back.  I recall well the craven look in your eyes as you turned tail and fled like frightened children, long before you ever caught sight of your enemy.  Might we expect a repeat performance?”

Balin openly cringed just as much as Bilbo.  He held his breath and waited for Thranduil’s answer, for the vile and cutting insults to fly like volleys of arrows, for everything to fall apart just as it had with Bard.  But the alternative was even worse.  Thranduil spared Thorin an utterly bored glance and then proceeded to… _ignore_ him.  Blatantly.  Dismissively.  As if Thorin Oakenshield was but a gnat or some other insignificant creature.  As if their century-long feud was not about to come to a head with a great deal of needless carnage on both sides.

“Will the one I named not come forth?” Thranduil said.  “Or must I stand here speaking to the wind?”

“ _You will speak with ME!_ ” Thorin roared.  He put his face right up to the little window, fending off Dwalin and Balin’s attempts to drag him back.  "It is _my kingdom_ upon which you have laid siege—!"

"The wind is particularly shrill today."

Bard spoke up then, which was probably a lucky thing since Thorin looked a beat away from lunging at the barrier of stone and toppling it with his bare hands.  "King Thranduil, would you mind _not_ antagonizing him so?  My people's very lives depend on this negotiation!  Yours do not."

"Then by all means, try to negotiate, see how far it takes you," Thranduil said.  "But I am here on a personal matter, which I would see resolved now before the halfling has a chance to slip away.  Well, Thrain's son?  Will you bid the burglar to come forth?"

" _Never_ ," Thorin hissed.  "For if I did send him forth, I've little doubt that would be the last any would see or hear of him for a hundred years or more!  You would hold him against his will for some trivial crime and leave him to _rot_ in your dungeons, as is your way with those who do not bow and scrape at your feet!"

"If I may," Balin said, interjecting quite bravely in Bilbo's opinion, "might we learn what crime Master Baggins is accused of?"

Thranduil leveled a narrow-eyed gaze at Balin.  "He has offered me insult," he said coolly.

Kili scoffed.  "What, that's _it?_   That's all he's done?  And you would have us hand him over without a fight?  Not a chance!"

"As I've said, this matter is between myself and the halfling and no business of yours—"

"Oh, for the love of—!" Bard snapped as he came back into view.  "He's talking about _this!_ "

Bard snatched the hood off his head, which Thranduil had clearly _not_ expected or else he surely would have stopped it.  The elven king whipped around with a vicious string of Sindarin on his lips, attempting to snatch the hood back from Bard, but the bowman had already tossed it away into the moat and left Thranduil with nothing to cover his head.  Nothing to cover his _hair_ tumbling gloriously down his back full view of the Company… and now they could all see that the once pale blond strands had, at some point between the barrel escape and now, been thoroughly dyed a rather fetching shade of lavender.

Bright.  Lavender.

Ori wheezed.  Dori clapped a hand over his brother's mouth, though his own face was turning the same purple as Thranduil's hair.  Kili and Fili traded a look as if daring each other to be the first to crack.  Bofur abruptly turned around and leaned against the nearest wall with his shoulders trembling.  Balin's jaw dropped, Dwalin blinked more rapidly than Bilbo had ever seen, and the rest of the dwarves seemed torn between sharp gasps or startled oaths or just gawking in stunned silence at the spectacle that was King Thranduil slowly recovering his composure.  He drew in a deep breath, flicked a lock of lavender over his shoulder, and turned to face them all with an ugly snarl that had no place on one so ageless and dignified.

"As you can now _see_ ," Thranduil said, biting out every word and shooting the unrepentant bowman an enraged look, "Bilbo Baggins has offered me grave insult and humiliated me before the eyes of my subjects!  Do you deny that a crime has taken place?  One that could only have been committed by your burglar during the time of your imprisonment?"

No one said a word.  Not even Thorin, who had yet to react in any way whatsoever.

"…we're still not giving you Bilbo," Kili croaked in a pale imitation of his earlier valor.  "Not because of… _that_.  It's not, that's not…"

Thranduil coldly stared Kili down until the poor lad snapped his mouth shut.  "Is it not a punishable offense among dwarves to mutilate the hair or beard of another?” he demanded.

"Well, ah," Balin stammered, "those laws really only cover damages caused by shearing or shaving, whether purposeful or accidental.  I don't think there's any particular clause that would take this into account.  And even if there _was_ , Bilbo is not a dwarf at all, so…"

Balin trailed off when, with no warning whatsoever, Thorin burst out laughing.

Not a chuckle, hidden slyly behind his hand or whatever drink he currently held.  Not a snort, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement at whatever nonsense was happening in front of him.  It was nothing like the giddy triumph from when they had found the hidden door, nor did it in any way resemble the relief and merriment after a narrow escape from death.  No, this… was nothing like Bilbo had ever heard from Thorin.  Deep and boisterous, loud and infectious and verging on hysteria, too much and too strong to be contained or inhibited.  It seemed to knock the breath from him, and yet he could not stop even as he sagged against the wall and slid down to the ground, clutching his face and cackling all the way.  His mirth echoed and echoed in the grand hall until it seemed to fill the entirety of Erebor, until Bilbo was certain they must hear him all the way in Dale.

Somewhere beyond the battlements, Bard snickered.  And for some odd reason, it was _that_ which set off the rest of the Company.  His protective turtle shell formation abruptly caved in on itself, the dwarves guffawing and clinging to one another and leaving Bilbo quite visible and unprotected.  And oh, if Thranduil had looked upset before, now he appeared downright _murderous_ at the sight of the hobbit.  Like he was contemplating exactly how Bilbo’s head would look mounted on a pike beside his throne as a warning to all future burglars.

Bilbo shuffled his feet, heart thrashing with nerves.  Although even he found it somewhat difficult to remain frightened now that he had a chance to examine his own handiwork.  It gave him a perverted sort of pride to see how well the color had taken without any blotchy or uneven spots.  Thranduil should consider himself fortunate.  It had been done on a whim, after all, and Bilbo was no expert in the art of hair dyeing.  For all he had known, the lavender and his natural blond might well have blended into the most heinous, puce-colored lovechild in living memory.  And Bilbo would not have lost a wink of sleep over it.

"…it's a lovely color on you," Bilbo ventured when the tension became too much.  Thorin, who had been on the verge of recovery, collapsed all over again.  By now he was so far gone that he couldn’t seem to make a single sound and only rolled on the ground, face hidden in the crook of his arm, fist thumping the stone repeatedly.

Thranduil trembled all over with repressed rage.  “I… demand… _satisfaction_.  I demand reparation!  And before those things, I demand you undo this… this hideous… this _abomination_ …”

“Ah well, as to that, there’s really not much I can do about it,” Bilbo admitted, shrugging feebly in the face of Thrandui’s mounting horror.  “But it should fade back to its original color.  Eventually.  Provided you wash often and aren’t still using the tainted hair lotion…”

“T-The _lotion?_   You mean to say... _my_ hair lotion...?"

“Yes, of course," Bilbo said, incredulous when he realized what Thranduil was driving at.  "Oh.  Oh what, how did you _think_ I managed it?  Do you think I stood over your sleeping form and chanted some absurd rhyme and conjured it from thin air?"

Thranduil thinned his lips.  "Given your role in the escape of thirteen dwarves right under the nose of my guard, I should think my assumptions were plausible.  I refuse to believe it was mere luck and not some manner of sorcery or unnatural trickery!”

“Do I look like a wizard to you?!”

“If it is not a spell, then tell me how to cure it!” Thranduil shouted, nearly apoplectic.  “There must be a way!  You _will_ tell me how to undo this!"

“No, I don’t think I will, actually!” Bilbo snapped, arms crossed, entirely fed up with this whole affair.  He had never possessed the patience for dealing with tantrums and hissy fits, whether from the very young or the very aged.  And just now Thranduil was beginning to remind him of a certain cousin who had spent hours curling and coifing her hair for her coming-of-age party, only to fall in a pond and have them drenched and ruined within the first ten minutes.

“ _You_ ," Thranduil uttered.  "You miserable… you descendant of _rats_ …"

"Oh, and now we've reverted to name-calling, have we?"

"I command you to tell me—!"

Bilbo shook his head.  “Absolutely not!  Not unless you take your army, turn right around and head back where you came from, _then_ perhaps I’ll be feeling more charitable!  Though personally, I think it couldn’t hurt to leave you like that for the next month or two.  I dare say it would teach you some humility!"

What little color was left in Thranduil's complexion leeched away, and he began to look the slightest bit queasy.  "I cannot remain like this for a month…"

“And why not?” Bilbo said with his most daring Tookish grin.  "Whether a month or a year, or even a hundred years, what does it matter to one such as you?  It's but a blink in the life of an elf, wouldn't you say?"

Thranduil nocked another arrow.  Bard sprang forth to stop him, and Bilbo squeaked when Dwalin seized him by the scruff and shoved him back amid the cluster of dwarves.  "Alright, alright, that's enough, you mad creature…"

"That's enough _!”_  Bard shouted.  When he failed to wrench Thranduil's bow away, he put his back to the window in the battlements to block the dwarves and the elf from one another's line of sight.  Much could be said for the courage of dwarves, but Bilbo was reminded once again that the courage of men was nothing to sneeze at.  "Enough!  Thranduil, you know I am grateful for the aid you have given my people, and I also have my grievances with Thorin and his Company.  But war is the very _last_ thing we need right now!  If you mean to drag us all into conflict over such petty reasons—"

" _Petty?_ " Thranduil spat, the deadly creak of a bowstring lending an ominous cast to his words.  "You know _nothing_ , Bard of Laketown, son of Girion!  Again and again, since the time of Thror, the line of Durin has shown the Woodland Realm and all who dwell there nothing but contempt!  My overtures of friendship were scorned, my fair council spat upon, my _wife's gems_ brazenly stolen before my eyes… and now here stands Thror's heir intent on withholding what is rightfully mine, while this burglar seeks to mock me and taunt me further!"

"It was my idea, just so we're clear!" Bilbo piped up.  "The hair, I mean.  I'm afraid I don't know about any gems, there are rather a lot of them in this mountain… but my actions in Mirkwood were my own.  My friends had nothing to do with it!"

Dori covered his mouth, muffling his squawk of outrage.  “Enough, that won’t help now."

“Thranduil, _please_ ,” Bard begged.  “This might be our only chance to—"

"I will make my demands known one last time!” Thranduil said, drowning out Bard.  " _Give me the halfling_ , if you wish to avoid the death and ruin I shall reap upon you on the morrow!  The White Gems of Lasgalen, I will also accept if you would have me as an ally again rather than a mortal enemy for as long as your line endures!  And _stand aside_ , bowman, unless you would leave your people leaderless and your children fatherless."

Bilbo shoved Dori’s hand away, now actively fighting the dwarves trying to shield him from sight again.  "Don't you dare threaten him!  Listen, if it’s treasure you want, then I'll give you my share!  You can have it all, I don't care—!"

"Bilbo, _stop,_ " Balin said with a fearful look at Thorin's crumpled form.  "You cannot make that promise!  Not now…"

"But this is getting ludicrous!"

"Make your choice, bowman!"

"I…"

"By Mahal, _just give him the damned necklace!_ " Thorin choked out, effectively silencing them all.  Even Bard turned to gape through the battlements at Thorin, who was on his knees and trembling all over with his face in his hands, caught somewhere between laughing and sobbing.  Bilbo had a feeling he wasn’t the only one waiting with bated breath for him to change his mind, to snatch back his words and refuse to surrender a single gem.  And the longer the silence dragged, the louder his heart pounded.

“Thorin?” Balin murmured.  He leaned down and let his hand hover over the king, tentative and not yet daring to touch.  “Are you… are you sure about that?  Really, truly sure?”

Thorin nodded.

“The Gems of Lasgalen for peace with Thranduil and the Woodland Realm?”

Another nod and a feeble flap of his hand.  Balin wasted no time straightening up and turning to Thranduil.  “Well then!  Are these terms acceptable?”

Thranduil lowered his bow, the blaze in his eyes now cooled to an ember.  It seemed to take an age for him to decide, perhaps weighing the merits of demanding more gold and gems.  Or demanding Bilbo as well.  Or just unleashing his army on the mountain anyway, peace and goodwill to his neighbors be damned.

But…

“…very well.  I find these terms acceptable.”

Bilbo sagged, almost dizzy with the sudden flood of hope where before there had been none.

“I shall expect the gems brought to the gates of Erebor within the hour,” Thranduil said in clipped tones, “and I will send an envoy to retrieve them.  Once this is done, I will—as the halfling so succinctly put it—take my army and go back where I came from.”

Dwalin stepped forward.  “And we can hold you to that, can we?” he growled.  “You won’t lay siege to us once the gems are over the wall?”

Thranduil arched an eyebrow.  “In this case, you shall simply have to trust my word,” he said with venom.

“We will, we do!” Bilbo said before any more insults could fly.  “I’ll personally see to it that the gems are brought to you.  It’s the least I can do, considering… well.  I _did_ help myself to quite a bit of your food and drink while I was sneaking about your realm.  I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one.”

“…indeed,” Thranduil said and favored Bilbo with one last icy glare before he whipped around and mounted his elk.  A few low words were exchanged between him and Bard, and when Thranduil set off for Dale, it was with the bowman’s tattered coat across his shoulders, the hood drawn up to shroud his desecrated hair.

Bilbo stepped up to the window in the battlements just as Bard did the same.  The poor man looked just as stupefied as Bilbo felt.  “I realize I may be pressing my luck here, Master Burglar.  But for the sake of my people, I must ask…”

“You’ll be given fair settlement,” Bilbo said hastily.  “Of course, it will have to come from my share, and it may take some time to count out every single coin, but…”

Balin, who had been crouched beside Thorin and listening intently, suddenly broke into the conversation.  “A moment, Bard!”

Bilbo spun around, fearing that he had presumed too much and would now be faced with the renewed fury of a gold mad king.  But Thorin wasn’t looking in their direction at all, instead allowing Dwalin and Fili to haul him upright and half carry, half drag him away from the battlements, each step uncertain and tottering like he was drunk.  The rest of the dwarves trailed after him one by one, and though Bilbo yearned to follow as well, he found himself lingering and listening in amazement to what Thorin had decreed regarding the Laketown survivors.

“…to take shelter in the mountain with us,” Balin said.  “We have few supplies and almost no foodstuffs, but Erebor can at least keep our people and yours protected from the elements until we send for aid from the Iron Hills.  The Woodland Realm, too, I'd wager Thranduil won’t say no to more of our coin in exchange for food.  And in the meanwhile, planning can begin for the rebuilding of both Dale and Laketown, reparations made to the families of the dead and wounded…”

“I… I must speak with my people first,” Bard said, but he was blinking rapidly and seemed overcome.  “But I believe none will object, not strongly anyway.  Already it is more than I’d hoped when I awoke this morning.”

Balin bowed deeply and formally.  “We may never begin to make amends for the grief and suffering inadvertently brought about by our actions.  But let this be a start.  On behalf of Thorin, King Under The Mountain, and all the dwarves of Erebor, I say unto you… welcome.  You and all who look to you are most welcome here, Bard the Dragon-Slayer.”

"…did Thorin truly offer all of that?" Bilbo said once Bard had thanked them profusely and took off for Dale at a gallop.

"Aye, and let's hope he hasn't changed his mind in the past two minutes," Balin said, anxious as they both hurried to catch up with the others.  They hadn't gone far, only down one of the side passages leading to some guard house or other, and Bilbo broke into a sprint when he heard raised voices.

But he need not have worried.  For when he rounded the corner into the guard house, it was to find the Company loosely gathered around Fili and Kili as they both clung to Thorin like they were youngsters again, one on each side while he cradled their heads and touched his forehead to theirs.

"Forgive me," Thorin rasped.  He was quite the sight to behold, cheeks pallid and etched with tears and exhaustion, sniffling mightily as he raised his head and looked at them all with red-rimmed eyes.  Bilbo couldn't think of a single moment on the quest when he had looked less like a king, even when he was tied up in a sack or locked in a dungeon or stuffed into a barrel of fish.

His heart throbbed.  _My Thorin_.

"Forgive me… I am so sorry," Thorin said, again and again.  "My Company, my kin.  After all you have done for me… I am not worthy to even stand before you, let alone…"

He looked around as if he expected to be struck, remorse and anguish so evident in his plea, and Bilbo wasn't the only one to surge forth without waiting for permission until they were all entangled in a massive group hug.  Shoulders and forearms were clasped, gruff but earnest words of forgiveness spilling out unasked, everyone trying to lay at least one hand on Thorin in reassurance and firm support.  Bilbo had to elbow and shove his way through the scrum to reach Thorin himself and threw his arms around him, nearly hanging off his neck and rejoicing in the surprised grunt at his weight.

“Bilbo…”

"Shush," Bilbo said and silenced any further words with a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little angstier than I would like. I tried to keep a steady balance of humor to match the first chapter, but certain issues still need to be resolved, and Bilbo and Thorin were both determined to Not Communicate About Important Relationship Things. But that comes standard in a Bagginshield fic, right? Please indulge their drama and heed the tag for Emotional Whiplash.

The rest of that day passed in a blur.  Thranduil's gems and necklace were given over without much ceremony, and for all the fuss that had been made over them, Bilbo had honestly been expecting a much bigger chest.  The elven army began to disperse at once, the regiments one by one marching away to the west while the dwarves busied themselves with tearing a door-sized hole in the battlements for the people of Laketown.  It took until nearly sunset for the throngs of refugees to make the journey to Erebor, huddled together in twos and threes under threadbare blankets, so shattered and grief-stricken that Bilbo couldn't bear to see it.

The dwarves were no less affected.  One thing to watch them from a distance and imagine greedy hands come to strip the mountain of its riches and spoils.  Quite another to see their wan faces and haunted eyes up close and realize that silver fountains were the last thing on their minds.  Ori broke down in tears at one point and had to be led away, then Gloin did the same while noting down the names of all the orphaned children.  Oin was bleak as he bandaged burn after burn and muttered dire warnings about infections and illness.

A raven was sent at once to the Iron Hills to request food and medicine and other basic supplies, as well as healers and stone-masons and any other willing hands.  But not soldiers, as those had already been sent for with the first raven that morning.  _I may have acted in haste_ , Thorin muttered contritely as he sent the bird aloft.  But there was little time or energy to expend on past mistakes.  Bilbo ran himself ragged alongside the Company making sure everyone had a decent place to lay their heads, that the children were fed and the wounded seen to and nobody ended up lost in the cavernous depths of the mountain.  He was also getting heartily irritated with this Alfrid fellow, whom Bilbo had caught three times so far snooping around in search of the treasury.

"Not like we could keep them all out anyway," Dwalin said later when the Company had gathered for their meager supper, sans Thorin.  "Too few of us, too many doors into the treasury.  We'd never know if some of them snuck in there to pocket a few handfuls."

"And I say let them!" Bilbo said, temper frayed to the point that even Dwalin's glower did nothing more than aggravate him.  "So what if they fill their pockets while we look the other way?  What's a few coins compared to what they've lost?  Are you planning to count every bit of it and make a note of what's missing?"

"Counting's the trouble, if you ask me," Nori pointed out.  "They're desperate, and we're outnumbered.  Bad combination.  If they're bold enough to burgle some coins, what's to say they won't slit all fourteen of our throats and have done with it?"

Bilbo scoffed.  "Oh yes, fantastic idea with an _army of dwarves_ on the way and due to arrive tomorrow.  I'd love to see their faces when they realize they didn't quite think that through!"

Bifur muttered something, which had Bofur nodding in agreement.  "Aye, good point.  Have we considered what'll happen if one of the men finds the Arkenstone while they're here?"

"Highly unlikely," Balin said with an impressive poker face.  "And not something we should concern ourselves with at the moment.  Thorin has ordered us to give up the search for now, which I believe is the wisest course of action.  We’ve already been blessed in ways we dared not imagine, with the dragon dead and the mountain reclaimed.  Best to focus on what's right in front of us.”

The mention of the Arkenstone tugged at something in Bilbo, guilt warring with the secret fear churning in his gut.  _Watch it drive him mad_.  Once he had finished his own meal, he quietly slipped away to seek out Thorin, though he had no clear idea what he meant to do beyond that.  He must confess his dishonesty and burglary at some point.  And yet… Bilbo had a dreadful feeling that now was not the time.  That all was not well just yet.

That sense was only confirmed when he found Thorin slumped over on the golden floor in the Gallery of Kings, dry heaving and hyperventilating and raving under his breath about thieves and usurpers in his kingdom.

“…but you let them inside, Thorin, remember?” Bilbo said, crouched near to his side and hoping the tremble in his words wasn’t too noticeable.  Some instinct told him that calm and reasonable was the way to approach this.  That whatever panic was welling up inside needed to _stay_ there while he tried to reach Thorin in what he could only pray were the last throes of gold sickness.  “They’re not thieves, you know this.  Those people… they’re just like you were when Smaug took your home so long ago.  That’s why you let them in, right?  Because you understand, and you wanted to give them what you were denied.”

“…never offered… the same to us…”

“Don't start with that again," Bilbo said harshly.  "You're _better_ than this, Thorin.  You're better than Thranduil and all those others who turned your people away.”

Thorin trembled and slowly shook his head, fingers raking through his hair brutally enough to rip out a few strands.  “Our gold… my birthright… it was to be _ours_ and ours alone.  Now their _filthy hands_ will steal it away one coin at a time while I do _nothing_.  I should… I must put a stop to it…!”

“Don't!" Bilbo said, reaching out to snatch his sleeve, but thankfully Thorin made no move to actually rise.  "Don’t you dare, don't go back on your oath now.  Or mine, I was also there.  You gave your word that all would share in the wealth of the mountain!  Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor?”

" _No!_ " Thorin gasped and looked to him with fever-bright eyes.  "I know this, Bilbo, I know it!  I know what you say is truth, but it… it calls to me still.  It gleams and shines and beckons from the depths of my memory, it shows me lies and betrayal where I _know_ there is none.  It tempts me with… it takes my… my dreams, my desires, and twists them beyond recognition.  I cannot say for certain what is madness and what is my own mind!  I can only hear the dragon and… the gold… it's pulling me, dragging me under, can you not see it…?"

His words trailed off into a terrifying silence, eyes wide and unblinking and fixated on the golden floor like it was about to rise up and devour him.  Bilbo quickly grasped his hands, if only to keep him from clawing at himself and causing further harm.

Thorin shivered and seemed to latch onto the sight of their linked fingers.  “Bilbo, speak to me!” he begged.  “Say anything, only _speak_.  Distract me, give me something else to think on…”

“Thranduil’s luscious lavender locks!” Bilbo blurted out.

Thorin went utterly still.

“Did you know," Bilbo said and leaned in as if to share a secret, "that Thranduil has _twenty-six_ bottles of different creams and lotions and scented soaps in his bath?  Twenty-six, just for his hair!  I had quite a job tainting the whole lot with my concoction.  And… do you know, I think I forgot to warn him it was more than one bottle?  He might be very cross with me when next we meet.”

Thorin ducked his head, but Bilbo could see his lips twitching.

“And the bath itself!  Have I told you about it?  Our entire Company could fit into Thranduil’s private bath with room to spare, it’s the size of a small lake!  I ask you, what does one king need all that water for?”

“…perhaps he shares it?”

“With whom, his _elk?_ ” Bilbo said in exaggerated disbelief, and he was encouraged by the outright snort that earned him.  “That wouldn't surprise me at all, actually.  I'm sure he pampers the dratted thing.  I wonder which he spends more time washing and combing?  His hair or his elk?"

“Stop, _stop!_ " Thorin cried in between bright peals of laughter.  He tried to take his hands back as if to shield his eyes, but Bilbo playfully held them tighter.  “Do not make me envision such a thing!"

“If I’m not allowed to unsee it, then neither are you!  Oh, and I haven’t even told you some of the things his _servants_ get up to when he’s away from the royal chambers!”

“Tell… tell me,” Thorin urged, and Bilbo launched into the tale of the hapless guards who drank their way through Thranduil's best wine during the Feast of Starlight.  And then the tale of the young handmaids who dressed themselves in Thranduil's gaudy clothes and jewels and pranced around like queens in his closet.  And then the tale of Prince Legolas curiously trying to lift Gloin’s axe and nearly slicing off his own toes when it proved too heavy.  And on and on, tale after tale, until hours must have gone by and they were both sprawled side by side on that golden floor, breathless and giggling like fools.

"Alright, now?"

Thorin breathed deeply through his nose, one arm flung across his eyes.  He made a motion with his head that could have been a nod or a shake.  Bilbo scooted closer and leaned over him with a frown.  "How do you feel?"

"…struck by lightning," Thorin mumbled.

Bilbo chuckled.  He fiddled with one of Thorin's braids, which had become distressingly frayed from earlier abuse, and after some dithering he took out the clasp and began to unravel it.  He worked slowly, methodically, giving each little knot and tangle his most gentle and undivided attention before he began to weave together a much neater braid.  Thorin made no protest to the intimate gesture, but Bilbo could sense that he was being watched and tried not to let his fingers fumble.

Once, not so long ago, he might have been surer of his welcome.  That kiss had not been their first... just the first that Thorin had allowed since entering the mountain on Durin’s Day.  The lust for gold had seemed to erase all else from Thorin’s mind, every loving word and intimate touch, every night they had shared a bedroll and whispered sweet nothings by the dying light of a fire.  Under the thrall of the sickness, Thorin had acted like none of it ever happened, and Bilbo had hoped with all his being that it was  _only_ the sickness to blame.  Whenever Thorin’s eyes had glazed over him unseeing, whenever he had stalked past the hobbit and instead sought out the treasury or the throne room, Bilbo had tried again and again to convince himself that it was merely a symptom of mental instability, not a sign of how Thorin truly felt about him.

Yet Smaug’s sibilant voice refused to leave his head.  _You are being used, thief in the shadows.  You were only ever a means to an end.  The coward, Oakenshield, has weighed the value of your life and found it worth nothing._

"Bilbo…"

"What?"

Thorin hesitated, and Bilbo finally lifted his gaze from the braid.  But whatever Thorin had planned to say, it seemed stuck somewhere in his throat never to be voiced, and Bilbo could not hope to decipher the vast wealth of emotion in his eyes.  Maybe affection, maybe gratitude, maybe longing… but whatever it was, the spark of _something_ was too soon smothered and stamped out.

"Oh, Thorin…"

Bilbo tugged him closer so he could wrap his arms around him, hating how Thorin curled into him with such misery, such vulnerability. 

“Must I fight this for all of my days?" Thorin whispered.  "Will I never be free of its influence?"

Bilbo pressed his lips into his hair, heart aching for Thorin.  He wished he had an answer, some permanent solution to banish the curse of Durin's bloodline forever.  He would have gladly stayed there all night and strived to find that answer, if only it would bring Thorin a modicum of peace.

But their momentary respite was interrupted, once again, by Dwalin telling them there was a wizard at the gates and a threat of war lurking on the horizon.

* * *

To say the wizard was displeased would be an understatement.

"And you _sent them away?_ " Gandalf bellowed.  Just as quickly as he had entered, he strode back out the gates of Erebor to his waiting horse, Bilbo and Thorin both on his heels and struggling to keep up.  "You mean to tell me that you had an army of Woodland elves on your doorstep, led by King Thranduil himself, and you sent them back to Mirkwood?  By all that is green and good in this world, Thorin Oakenshield!  I wish you _had_ declared war on him!  I wish you’d given him good reason to keep Erebor surrounded and under siege!  Whyever did you have to be _reasonable_ on the one occasion when I would rather you had been reckless?"

Thorin scowled as he let fly his third raven to Dain, this one warning of the orcs and pleading all haste.  “Whyever did _you_ leave us at the edge of Mirkwood and then fail to meet us at the overlook on Durin’s Day?  You have not the right to bleat and moan about my actions when you were haring off doing whatever you please!”

“ _I was locked in a cage in Dol Guldur!_ ”

“And you had not the decency to magic yourself free until the last possible moment!" Thorin shouted.  "We have no time to prepare, not even a hope of calling for further aid!”

Bilbo poked his head up in between them.  “Is running away an option?"

“ _No!_ ” Thorin and Gandalf cried out together, the latter more of a surprise than the former.

“The Lonely Mountain must not fall to the Enemy—!”

“I will not abandon Erebor only a handful of days after reclaiming it—!”

“—for its strategic position, it is the gateway to the lands of Angmar in the north—"

“—never underestimate dwarves, though we are few in number, we are more than capable of—”

Bilbo flung up his hands.  “Alright fine, yes!  You’ve both made your point!”

Gandalf turned to his horse and swung up into the saddle with a weary groan.  “I must try to catch up with Thranduil and convince him to turn back.  With some luck and a great deal of speed…”

Thorin seized the trailing edge of his cloak.  “Are you _mad_ , wizard?  Thranduil marched on Erebor for the Gems of Lasgalen, and he has them now!  He will not come to our aid.  It is a fool’s errand!”

“And our only hope now,” Gandalf retorted, “unless you have a spare army stashed in your back pocket!”

“I have already sent for Dain!” Thorin said hotly.  “I have bid him ride forth with his best fighters.  They will be here by dawn.”

“And you know this for a certainty, do you?  After the dwarf lords refused you this past spring?”

Thorin clenched his jaw and stepped back.  “You would abandon us,” he spat.  “ _Again_ , you leave us to fend for ourselves at a time when your magic might make all the difference!  Very well, go if you will and do not dare to return!  Never again will I have dealings with wizards and elves!  Traitors and deceivers, all of you!"

“Thorin, I have only ever—” Gandalf called out, but Thorin had already whipped around and stormed back into the mountain.  Bilbo ached to chase after him, but he was held back by concern for the wizard.  He hadn't missed the fact that Gandalf was limping and covered in bruises and scabbed cuts, the gray robes filthy and more tattered than usual.  Wherever the he had been these past few months, it had clearly been no picnic.

"Gandalf, are you sure you can reach Thranduil in your… condition?"

Gandalf harrumphed.  "And what condition would _that_ be?"

"You know well what I mean!" Bilbo said, refusing to rise to the bait.  "Thorin is right, you know.  You weren't here when Thranduil first showed up, but he wasn't exactly in a… charitable mood.  We had to bribe him just to make him go away!  No offense, but I don't think even you have a hope of convincing him to help us out of the goodness of his heart.  He’s far more likely to say _good riddance_ and leave us to our fate.”

"Even so, Bilbo, we must try," Gandalf said and held out his hand.

Bilbo stepped back from the offered hand without a second thought.  “ _We_ must?  Gandalf, what are you talking about?  I’m not leaving now!”

“You must, Bilbo!” Gandalf said, as if there was nothing at all unreasonable about his demand.  “These lands will be a bloodbath come morning, it's no place for a hobbit.  I will ensure you are as far away as possible before the battle begins.”

“You chose me as fourteenth member of this Company—”

“And now I’m un-choosing you!  You cannot stay, it's out of the question.  I won’t allow it!”

“I’m not asking you to allow it, Gandalf,” Bilbo said with a faint smile.  Maybe he should have been furious at the mere suggestion that he should abandon his friends, but it warmed him to know that Gandalf so worried for his safety.  Only half a year ago, Bilbo had thought he was only being dragged along on this quest so the wizard could have a good laugh.  In some ways he was still trying to find his feet, but in this at least Bilbo was certain.  “I’m staying, until the end if I have to.  In case you hadn't noticed, I've grown quite fond of these dwarves you invited over for dinner.”

“...so you have,” Gandalf murmured and studied him for a long moment, perhaps finally catching on to how serious Bilbo was.  He nodded to himself.  “I see.  This journey has changed you in the most wonderful and unexpected ways, my dear Bilbo.  I only regret that it's brought you to such peril here at the end."

"What, the _dragon_ wasn't peril enough?"

Gandalf laughed, which made Bilbo huff and wonder what had been so amusing about his question.  The wizard straightened in the saddle and gave Bilbo a solemn nod.  "I will see you again, my friend," he vowed.

“Right,” Bilbo said around the lump in his throat.  “Ride safely, then.  Give Thranduil my regards.  Oh, and… I'm not sure this will help, but tell him I promise to fix it if he turns back.”

“Promise to fix what?”

“Ehh,” Bilbo hedged and stared at his feet.  “Oh, you’ll… you’ll understand when you see him, I’m sure…”

“Hmm,” Gandalf grumbled to himself, no doubt irritated with being kept out of the loop.  That was a wizard for you, Bilbo thought, always needing to know everybody’s business.  He stepped back, expecting Gandalf to take up the reins and set off.  But instead Gandalf lingered a moment longer and looked at him sharply.

“Thorin surrendered the Gems of Lasgalen?  He did so freely, of his own choice?”

Bilbo scowled, at once defensive on Thorin’s behalf.  “He did, yes.  He’s not his grandfather, you know.  Once he had a moment to think it through, he knew what needed to be done.”

“And yet a shadow still lurks in his eyes,” Gandalf cautioned.  “Don’t underestimate the evil of gold over which a serpent has long brooded.  Thorin has done well to resist thus far.  Its hold on him is tenuous, but his mind is still in a fragile state.  The smallest and most inconsequential thing could be enough to push him one way or the other.”

“I know,” Bilbo said, one protective hand drifting to his side when Gandalf decided to glare at his pocket for some unknown reason.  The standoff only lasted for half a heartbeat, but it was enough to make something ugly and jealous flare to life in Bilbo before he forced himself to breathe and relax.  And he wondered why he was so paranoid that Gandalf might try to take his ring when the wizard didn’t even know it existed.

“…but I have every faith in you both,” Gandalf said at last.  “Thorin will grow stronger with each passing day, but for now he desperately needs the support of those around him.  Watch over him, Bilbo.  Remind him of what he’s _truly_ fighting for.”

No further words were exchanged before Gandalf spurred his horse and set off at a swift gallop.  Bilbo watched him vanish into the night with heavy heart, the silence in this desolate place too much to bear all of a sudden.  He fled back into the mountain, for the first time in his life longing for the strength and resilience of stone to keep the dangerous world at bay.

* * *

The armory was a madhouse when he made his way down to that level.  Worse than any market street Bilbo had ever seen, the Lakemen scrambling over each other to claim dusty weapons and comically squeezing themselves into dwarvish armor that pinched in all the wrong places.  Bard was in the middle of it all passing out armaments and attempting to instill some valor in his people, but he caught Bilbo by the shoulder as they crossed paths.

“What of the elves?  Has a message been sent?  Will they come to our aid?”

Bilbo hesitated and picked his words carefully.  “Gandalf is riding to catch up with them now.  What happens after that is up to Thranduil.”

“…I see,” Bard said grimly.  He nodded at Bilbo and went back to his people with his expression shuttered.  “Yes, I _know_ it’s too small, Percy.  Just do what you can… Sigrid, _put that quiver down!_   I told you to stay with the women and children…”

Bilbo hurried on, bumped and jostled occasionally by the men rushing by, until he found the Company tucked away in a secluded part of the armory which seemed to house the pieces meant for royalty, to judge by all the embellishments and filigree and ridiculous amount of gold plating.  And how odd it was to see his friends looking so resplendent and solemn when at any other time Bilbo knew they would have been laughing and playfully mocking one another.  None of it mean-spirited, of course, it was simply the way of dwarves to show their affection through teasing.  Bilbo would have joined in himself with highly exaggerated complaints about dwarves and their love of pomp and pageantry, declaring their weapons and armor to be absurd and impractical.  They all loved it when Bilbo played up his fussiness and would have been eager to “help” him into an overabundance of chainmail and heavy plate until he fell over like a turtle on its back.  Then Thorin would have shown up and pretended to be irritated at their lack of discipline, and either Ori or Bofur or someone would have taken pity and heaved him back upright while everyone else laughed themselves silly, and everything would have been lovely and _normal_ …

Bilbo had to catch his breath at the thought that they might all be dead tomorrow.  These dwarves that he had come to love as fiercely as family… Azog would slaughter them all in the name of ending the line of Durin.

“Bilbo.”

He almost jumped out of his skin, but it was only Thorin beside him.  He alone of the dwarves hadn't donned much in the way of extra armor, just spaulders and gauntlets and a chest plate polished to a silvery sheen and bearing what Bilbo assumed to be an important sigil of ravens and stars.  But otherwise Thorin looked much the same as always, which concerned him.  Bilbo had not forgotten what had happened the last time they faced Azog.  He personally thought Thorin should be wearing _more_ armor.  A _lot_ more armor.  As much as he could possibly don without collapsing, every inch of him shielded from head to toe.

Thorin stepped closer and offered him a shirt that resembled chainmail, but crafted of some unknown material that made it shimmer in the torchlight.  "This is for you," he said softly.  "You will need it for the battle."

“Oh… right, of course,” Bilbo said and shucked his coat so that Thorin could help him draw the mail shirt over his head.  Contrary to all his expectations, it was supple and feather-light.  Something that would let him run and jump and duck without feeling the weight of it, nor would his invisible presence be given away by the clink and slide of metal links.

“What is this made of?”

“Silver steel,” Thorin said and seemed pleased that Bilbo had thought to ask.  “You might know it from your books as _mithril_.  No blade can pierce it.  This shirt is the only one of its kind.  No others were ever made.”

Bilbo’s head shot up, hands frozen in the act of tracing the links.  “Then shouldn’t _you_ be wearing it?” he said.

But Thorin shook his head.  “It is a gift.  A token of… my regard for you.”

“…and also the only armor in this mountain that could possibly fit me?”

“That does not lessen its worth,” Thorin said, his smile wry.  “Will you wear it?”

“Well… a fine gift such as this, how could I refuse?” Bilbo said, at once pleased and flustered to have Thorin gazing at him so tenderly after days of being ignored.  He tried not to quiver when Thorin’s hand hovered by his cheek, craving his touch like a seedling starved for the light of the sun.

But it was a little hard to appreciate with the entire Company blatantly eavesdropping on their little moment.  Bilbo leaned around Thorin and glared at them all.  “Excuse me, but do you _mind?_ ”

“Oh, not at all, carry on,” Bofur said with a grin and an impudent wave of his hand.  “Don’t let us interrupt!”

Bilbo mimicked his hand wave.  "Don't you all have some important battle to prepare for?  Shoo!  Off you go!"

"Aye, you heard the Consort-to-be," Balin said, the absolute traitor who had the gall to _wink_ at him.  "Let's give them some privacy, come along, lads…"

"Balin," Thorin said in stern warning.

“Oh Mahal,” Fili muttered, abruptly walking away.  “If this is going to be Laketown all over again, I’m off.  I've already heard more than I ever wanted in a lifetime."

Kili blanched and chased after his brother.  “Wait… is _that_ what all those thumping noises were?” he cried in mild horror.  “You told me that was the fish!”

Everyone filed out one by one after the brothers, most of them making a point to walk right between him and Thorin just so they could throw sly grins at one or the other.  Dwalin was the last to leave, and Bilbo could have sworn he heard him mutter, "Just marry the hobbit and have done with it", which made Thorin clear his throat and sign something undoubtedly rude in Iglishmêk.

Bilbo gusted a sigh once they were alone.  “I swear,” he said, exasperated, “that lot are worse than all of my aunts _and_ my great grandmother combined!"

Thorin snorted.  “You haven’t met my sister yet,” he said.

“Don’t suppose I ever will now,” Bilbo said absently, then immediately rethought his words when Thorin grew unnaturally silent beside him.  “I meant… because we all might die tomorrow!  Might.  Obviously, I'll be very happy if we _don't_ die.  It would make a terrible end to this adventure if we survived so many other perils only to—”

He wasn't quite prepared when Thorin grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss that knocked the breath from his lungs.  But Bilbo wasn't complaining either, frantically stealing as many kisses as he could while he pushed Thorin back against the nearest wall and pressed in as close as he possibly could.  The damnable armor between them was a bit uncomfortable, but Bilbo refused to draw back long enough to do a single thing about it.  At least Thorin had the presence of mind to yank his gauntlets off before he buried his fingers in Bilbo's hair, clutching him and guiding him all at once.

"I have not treated you as I should these past days," Thorin said against his lips.  “Forgive me.”

"Behind us now, never mind it," Bilbo mumbled.  But Thorin took him by the shoulders again, this time carefully prying them apart.

"Bilbo,” Thorin said, but faltered and absently toyed with the collar of the mithril shirt.  “When… when I was under the thrall of the gold…"

"Yes?" Bilbo said, mouth dry.

“…you showed me something, before Bard and Thranduil arrived,” Thorin said and caught his eye meaningfully.  “May I see it again?”

“O-Oh, of course!” Bilbo said, hastily tugging one of his hands free.  It took him a moment to fish the acorn out since his ring was making a valiant effort to fall out of his pocket along with it.  _Clumsy hands_ , Bilbo mentally cursed, but he managed to retrieve the acorn at length.  And his heart swelled when Thorin regarded the seed with something akin to reverence.  “Just a silly thing, really…”

Thorin shook his head.  “No.  When you spoke to me of your garden… I know not how, but it broke through my madness for a brief moment.  It reminded me of the true reason I set out to reclaim Erebor.  Because it is my home.  The _mountain_ is my home, not the gold within it.  Just as the Shire is yours.”

“…it is,” Bilbo said, voice cracking very much without his permission.  But the mention of the Shire had been more than he could take right then.  They had spoken of the future only rarely, and then only in idle passing the way that lovers did.  But even then… it had always been their understanding that Bilbo would be returning home.  Even in the depths of his madness, Thorin had still acknowledged the day when Bilbo must leave and take with him only the memories of their time together.

It would hurt.  Oh yes, it would hurt.  Bilbo could not deny that he had gone and foolishly fallen in love with this daft dwarf and magnificent king.  It was almost frightening the depth of passion and devotion that Thorin could inspire in him, and the thought of dropping to his knees and confessing all and being invited to stay in Erebor forever was a pretty fantasy that he tried not to indulge in.  Except… except in moments like this, when Thorin looked at him _like that_ , as if he might die if Bilbo walked away now.

…but would Thorin still desire him a year from now?  Ten years from now?  Would a newly crowned king appreciate an ordinary hobbit clinging to his coattails like a pining tween?  Was it perhaps better to accept that it wasn’t meant to be and look back on each other with regret and fondness?  When all was said and done and he was no longer the Master Burglar and Dragon Riddler and Luck Wearer, would there be a place in Thorin’s heart for Bilbo Baggins of the Shire?

_You were only ever a means to an end._

The best and most rational thing to do would be to ask Thorin himself.  Just speak his mind now and see where they both stood on the subject and deal with the heartbreak soon rather than later.  It was the advice his parents would have given him, Bilbo was sure.  And Thorin already looked braced for _some_ sort of conversation, if the uncertainty tugging at his countenance was anything to go by.

_His mind is still in a fragile state.  The smallest and most inconsequential thing could be enough to push him one way or the other._

"Keep it!" Bilbo blurted out and cursed himself for a coward.  "The acorn, I mean.  Not forever, just… just until this whole mess is behind us.  This way if I want it back, I'll have to come and find you first."

Bilbo shoved the acorn into his hand, blushing abominably under the weight of Thorin’s stare.  And his cheeks only burned hotter when Thorin chuckled and touched the acorn to his lips.  "Some might call that a good luck charm, Master Baggins."

"Well then, let's hope my luck hasn't run out," Bilbo said with a shaky smile.  He pulled Thorin back into his arms and held him tight, eyes squeezed shut when Thorin shuddered and buried his face in Bilbo's shoulder.

"You _will_ find me after it's over," Thorin whispered, pleading rather than commanding.  "Please… do not leave without saying goodbye."

Bilbo nodded, words failing him.  It didn't occur to him until much later that he should have given Thorin the Arkenstone instead and begged his forgiveness for withholding it.  But by then he was half asleep in his little corner of the armory with his rolled up coat as a pillow, and Thorin was still off strategizing with Balin and Bard.  And Bilbo decided in his groggy state that the blasted stone could wait until morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that godawful feeling when you have your story almost fully written out and ready to go, and you promise your readers that they can read it "soon-ish" after some editing? But then in the process of editing you realize that everything is wrong, everyone is out of character, it's not at all what you envisioned, and now the only solution is to scrap your original ending and go through rewrite after rewrite until you finally come up with something that actually makes sense?
> 
> Yeesh… sorry about that.
> 
> Please note, there are exactly two lines of Elvish dialogue in this chapter, which may or may not be grammatically correct. I'd be very grateful if someone who knows the language better could let me know whether I got it right or screwed it up completely!

_—Excerpt from The Quest for Erebor: The Battle of the Five Armies  
_ _A firsthand account by Balin son of Fundin—_

_The enemy came upon us not long after dawn.  They followed the path carved out by the Were-worms and rose from the earth like a dark tide, many thousands of orcs and goblins and trolls and wargs marching beneath the Pale Orc's banner.  But we did not falter, in spite of these improbable odds.  With the timely aid of Dain Ironfoot and the warriors of the Iron Hills, we of Thorin's Company and the brave men of Laketown held the gates of Erebor.  For three long and bloody hours, we gave no ground, though our losses were grave.  The dead piled up even as the river below was fouled with the blood of dwarf, orc and man alike.  The stone of our defensive wall trembled from the endless onslaught of siege weapons until I feared it would crumble beneath our feet._

_I confess that we held no illusions of victory in that hour.  It was our last, grim hope that our names and valor would be remembered and that our sacrifice might buy time for the women and children of Laketown to escape through the secret door._

_But then I heard it!  From the west came the sound of a miracle—a single elvish war horn.  So unexpected was it that all fighting came to a standstill.  Our Master Baggins leapt up onto the balustrade the better to see across the distance, and it was he who held his sword aloft and cried out, "The elves!  They've come!  Thorin, the elves are coming!"_

_It was perhaps the first time in all our history that such words have been met with joy!  Indeed, Thranduil had returned and arrayed his army along the cliffs to the west, their blades and bows gleaming in the sunlight.  And with the elves also were Gandalf the Grey and Radagast the Brown, Beorn the skin-changer, and the eagles of Manwë who had once saved our Company in the Misty Mountains.  Together, these most unexpected reinforcements rushed to our aid and threw Azog's army into confusion and panic._

_Yet our triumph swiftly turned to bitter tragedy.  So distracted were we by the rapid turn of the battle that none saw the orc which snuck up behind Master Baggins and struck him over the head.  I could only watch and cry out in dismay as his sword dropped from his hand and his limp body fell from the rampart out of sight.  Many of our Company called out his name with anguish and despair, and never shall I forget how our king wailed as if his heart had been ripped asunder, for we knew not even the gift of mithril could have saved our little burglar from such a fall._

_The battle may have been won, but in our hearts we could not be glad.  For Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, he of the silver tongue who riddles with dragons, he who walks unseen and wears his luck as a ring upon his finger, had been lost._

* * *

Awareness crept back in increments.  Bilbo coughed and immediately wished he hadn't, every breath a pitiful, rattling thing that scorched his lungs and throat.  He had no notion of where he was or how he had gotten there… only that there was a fierce ache in his head and all his limbs were weighted down by bone-deep exhaustion.

And _oh_ , he was cold.  So very, very cold.  Had he once thought clinging to the side of a barrel on his birthday to be the most uncomfortable experience of his life?  Now Bilbo was proven wrong.  Even his _toes_ were numb, and that was saying something for a hobbit.  His teeth did not chatter, he couldn't shiver or muster the strength to turn his head or twitch a finger, he could only lie there and quietly lament whatever terrible life choices had brought him to this.

"…where did you find him…?"

"…shore of the river, not far from the gates.  I know not how he came to be there, but he's very lucky the turn of the battle kept most of the orcs away…"

"…so small, the poor child!  How could the Lakemen allow him to join in the fight?"

“Is it a mannish child?  I've never seen any creature with feet like this…"

Tall, willowy shapes swam in and out of his periphery, their lilting words muddled and difficult to grasp over the buzzing in his ears, the whiteness blotting out his vision.  Multiple hands worked rapidly to peel away his sopping wet clothes, which was mixed blessing.  The heavy blankets being heaped on him were a definite improvement, wonderfully soft and warm against his chilled skin.  Yet the return of sensation only served as a reminder of how much he _hurt_.  From crown to heel, Bilbo could tally up the cuts and bruises littering his body, each now throbbing and screaming for attention.  But his right shoulder had the worst of it, hot pain blossoming outward and lancing up and down his arm in a way that made his breath catch and tears spring to his eyes.

"…head injury, broken clavicle, beginning stages of frostbite… and all that aside, the river was contaminated from the battle.  If he took even a little of that foulness into his lungs…"

"Can any of the senior healers be spared…?"

"Not at the moment, most are still in the mountain tending to the dwarves and men…"

Somewhere beyond the fog in his mind, those few words penetrated.  Battle.  Dwarves.  Mountain.  A vague memory came to him of the armory, of Thorin holding him close and murmuring in his ear, _some might call that a good luck charm, Master Baggins_ , and Bilbo jolted like he had been shocked.  He tried exactly once to sit up and groaned when the spiking agony in his shoulder sent him right back down again, retching and curling in on himself.  His very tall caretakers immediately fussed over him and tucked the blankets back in place.

"Young one, please remain still!  You must rest and let us tend to your wounds!”

Bilbo shook his head and batted weakly at the gentle fingers stroking his hair.  "Th… the battle," he wheezed.

"Do not fear, the orcs cannot reach you.  You are in Dale, among the elves of the Greenwood.  You will be safe here until we can return you to your family.”

"Drink this, little one, it will help with the pain."

But Bilbo stubbornly closed his lips to whatever concoction they were trying to force down his throat.  He had no care for his injuries or his own safety.  What mattered was that there was a battle happening somewhere, one that his friends were probably taking part in, and he _wasn't there_ to help them.  He was meant to be with them right now, Bilbo was sure of it.  They could not have left him behind or forgotten to wake him… no, they would never do such a thing.  Thorin had given him the mithril, he had _trusted_ Bilbo to stand and fight by his side when the time came.  And here he was lying about like an invalid!

"I must—" Bilbo said, then gagged when a spoon with some bitter tincture was shoved between his lips.  Immediately, the fight left him.  He sank back down as the pain floated away and became a distant memory, the world around him grown fuzzy and dreamlike.  He wondered why he had ever wanted to rise in the first place.

"Quickly, bear a message to Bard the Dragonslayer.  He may know who among his people has lost a child—"

" _Dartho!  Thír hi!_ "

" _I arkenstone!  Nan Aear a Geil!  Manen?_ "

Someone grasped his uninjured shoulder and jostled it lightly.  "Child, where did you find this?  Speak!"

"’M a hobbit," Bilbo slurred, and that was all he managed before the frantic voices drifted away.  Or perhaps it was he who drifted.  For what could have been hours or years, Bilbo hung suspended in a feverish haze, scarcely aware of his surroundings as his thoughts spun away into the ether.  He sweated and shivered by turns, tossing in his blankets and wracked with coughing fits that seemed to last for eons and left him exhausted and weeping from the pressure on his shoulder.  The only relief came from the herbal draughts that his caretakers spooned into his mouth at timely intervals, which had a way of knocking him blissfully insensate the moment the liquid touched his tongue.

But even then, with his waking moments so few and far between, Bilbo could not forget the battle.  Or rather… it seemed he _had_ forgotten the battle.  Try as he might, the last thing he recalled with any clarity was that quiet moment in the armory with Thorin.  Everything after was gone from his mind.  He had no idea which side had prevailed or how many had fallen, whether Erebor remained in dwarf hands or even if his friends were still alive.  And his caretakers were of no help.  They spoke Sindarin amongst themselves, too low and quick for Bilbo to understand, and blatantly ignored what few questions he was able to croak out, always telling him to _rest, don’t worry, you are safe, Master Hobbit, just remain here and sleep, you’ve nothing to fear._

Which was… all very odd.  Downright suspicious.  Maybe it was dwarvish paranoia rubbing off on him, but Bilbo really had to wonder why the elves were _here_ , encamped in Dale again when he had last seen them heading back to the forest.  Had Gandalf convinced Thranduil to turn back after all?  But if that was so and the elves had come to their aid, why was Bilbo in their care rather than in Erebor?  He hadn't seen a single dwarf or man since waking in this tent, nor had he seen hide or hair of Gandalf.

He refused to consider the most likely and dire possibility.  That the battle had been lost and Thorin and the others had perished and somehow Bilbo was the only survivor.  Nightmares of that ilk woke him several times in the course of his sickness, and Bilbo muffled his cries in the pillow so as not to alert his caretakers.  These elves were beholden to Thranduil, who not so long ago had seemed very keen on putting an arrow through Bilbo's head.  Bearing that in mind, he wasn't _quite_ sure how much he trusted them.  For all he knew, his life had been saved only so that he could spend the rest of it in a deep, dark cell in Mirkwood.

Yes, _that_ must be the reason for all this strangeness and secrecy.  It was the only thing that made sense.  Bilbo had been taken prisoner for his ill-conceived transgression against the elven king.  And obviously he hadn’t seen any of the dwarves yet because they could not _get_ to him.  They had no invisible rings, no means of springing him from Thranduil’s clutches as Bilbo had done for them.

There was nothing else for it.  He needed to escape.  Bilbo came to this conclusion on the day when he finally woke with his mind clear.  The fever had broken, though his chest still ached, and his throat was awfully scratchy.  One shaky hand fluttered to his shoulder and arm, both of which were immobilized by a splint and sling.  The whole area throbbed in a way he found distracting, but not unbearable.  His last dose of tincture must have been watered down, enough to dull the pain without knocking him out completely.

That must have been purposely done.  Now that he was no longer deathly ill, they wanted him awake and alert for… whatever was about to happen next.  But Bilbo had no intention of lying here meekly and awaiting his fate.  Sniffing and lifting his head, he looked around and found himself alone in the tent.  And it was a very nice tent, beautifully decorated with bright lanterns and artfully carved furnishings, though his little cot seemed like an afterthought shoved hastily in the corner.  It didn’t match the rest of the décor at all.  And that only increased his mistrust tenfold.  Thranduil had isolated Thorin too, kept him in a separate cell far from the rest of the Company.

Thorin…

_You will find me after it’s over.  Please… do not leave without saying goodbye._

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and snapped them open again.  He was not bound or restrained, nor were there any guards in the tent itself.  He had only his underthings on beneath the blankets, but the rest of his clothes were in plain sight, neatly folded on a storage chest across the tent.  Even the mithril shirt was there.  All he had to do was walk across the tent, get dressed, don his ring and flee to the mountain.  Simple enough.  Certainly not as convoluted as smuggling thirteen dwarves down a river in barrels.

"Slowly… does it," Bilbo muttered.  With a steadying breath and a grunt of effort, he levered himself up on his uninjured arm.  His vision tunneled, all his limbs trembling with the effort to move after being so long abed.  He willed himself not vomit or keel over sideways as he swung his legs off the cot and let his feet touch the stone ground.  There, that was done.  Now there was only about six steps between him and his clothes.  He could totter that far, surely.  His convalescence had not left him _that_ feeble.

He stood.  Took a single stumbling step.  And crumpled with a weak cry, legs folding beneath him like stalks of grass.  Abandoning dignity, Bilbo crawled the rest of the way and let his body sprawl gracelessly across the storage chest, cheek pressed to the mithril for comfort.  The links were smooth and delightfully cool against his skin, and he had to pinch his thigh to remind himself not to pass out there.

The tent flap was drawn aside.  Bilbo jerked upright, caught by the stare of an elf who had poked her head in and now raised an eyebrow at his odd position.  He surmised from her armor that she was a guard of some sort, though she did not seem alarmed by his escape attempt.

"Erm," Bilbo said, acutely aware of his lack of clothing.  "Ah… I seem to be… having some trouble.  I don't suppose you would mind helping me put on my trousers?"

The elf withdrew and spoke to someone else outside.  "Send for the king.  The halfling is awake."

"Oh, bugger it," Bilbo muttered.  He snatched up his trousers and clumsily wormed his legs into them, but it quickly became apparent he would not be able to lace them up with one hand.  The buttons on his shirt proved equally impossible, and he left it hanging on one shoulder while he attempted to bunch up the mithril under his arm and fish the ring out of his pocket at the same time.  But by then the first guard had returned, along with two other elves that Bilbo recognized as the healers who had looked after him all this time.  And they were not at _all_ happy to find him out of bed.

"Really, this isn't necessary!" Bilbo complained, very loudly, as they carried him back to bed and helped him dress.  Well, _helped_ was a strong word, it was more like they manhandled the garments back on his poor, abused limbs.  "I'm feeling much better now.  Your concern is… well-meaning, and I do thank you for it, but I think it's time I moved on.  I'm sure you have other patients in far greater need… no, I _don't_ want something for the pain!  You keep that spoon away from me!"

"Master Hobbit, please remain in bed," one of the healers implored.  "You have only just woken after many days of fever…"

" _How_ many days?"

"Twelve," the healer said, bluntly and with no regard for Bilbo's distress.  "It is now the thirteenth morning following the great battle for Erebor—"

"Good gracious!" Bilbo cried and tried to stand again but was immediately pushed back down.  He swatted at them all indiscriminately.  "Now see here!  You cannot keep me against my will!  I demand to be returned to my friends at once!  And I should like to know whose idea it was to bring me here in the first place—"

The tent flap was pulled back again, and all the elves bowed when Thranduil swept inside.  Bilbo snapped his mouth shut and regarded him mutinously while Thranduil in turn studied him with an unreadable air.  The elven king wore a silver cloak and hood today, which complemented the rest of his outfit, though a single lock of lavender had managed to escape and flutter its defiance in the open.  Bilbo wondered idly if Bard had ever gotten his tattered coat back.

Thranduil turned to the pair of servants that had trailed in after him.  "I will take breakfast here.  Set the table for two.  I'm sure Master Baggins is in need of sustenance."

Bilbo swallowed dryly, the gnawing hunger in his belly and the manners drilled into him since childhood compelling him to accept the offer with utmost gratitude.  But petty stubbornness won out in the end, and he only muttered, “Kind of you, I'm sure,” in his snidest Lobelia impression.

If Thranduil noticed, he did not comment.  He did not react at all, in fact, merely stood to the side so the servants could bustle out and return within moments with a table and two chairs.  The china and cutlery followed swiftly thereafter, and then platter upon platter of food which drew Bilbo's eye like a dragon to a hoard of jewels.  Grilled fish and hardboiled eggs and bacon still sizzling in the pan.  A whole loaf of bread and a bowl of clementine oranges and an assortment of greens and roasted root vegetables.  Jams and honey and butter, and by all that was holy, there was even a _cheese platter_.Bilbo couldn't recall the last time he had eaten cheese that wasn't moldy on one side and hard as rock on the other.

Once everything was set out and arranged prettily, Thranduil seated himself and gestured for Bilbo to join him.  Which he did, with the aid of his caretakers, and it was just humiliating to require help with a simple thing like walking.  Bilbo tried not to slump too much once he was settled in his chair and muffled a dry cough in his sleeve.

"Water?"

"What… oh, yes please," Bilbo said with a nod to the servant.  He licked his lips, attention fixated on the clean water filling up his goblet, and he hardly waited for the elf to stop pouring before he drank it all to the last drop.  It took draining the goblet two more times before his throat no longer felt like he had swallowed glass, then Bilbo set to the food with all the appetite of a hobbit who had not eaten properly in half a year.  The bread loaf was devoured in a blink, great chunks torn off with his teeth and gulped down half chewed, and most of the bacon and cheese followed soon after.  A servant was kind enough to peel a few eggs and cut up his fish so he could manage them with a fork, and Bilbo served himself a few helpings of potatoes along with far more butter than was strictly necessary.  It had been so long since he had the opportunity to truly eat his fill, let alone enjoy such delicious fare.  How ironic to think this had come straight from Thranduil's lands where only a short time ago he and the Company had nearly starved to death…

He paused with his fork in his mouth, realizing for the first time that Thranduil had barely touched his own plate.  And the rest of the elves were gaping at the half dozen empty platters in front of Bilbo, torn between revulsion and awe.  Much like the elves in Rivendell had looked at the dwarves when they were flinging lettuce all over the place.

Face hot, Bilbo cleared his throat and wiped his mouth on a napkin.  "Very good, this," he said.

"…high praise, from a halfling," Thranduil said.  He dismissed the onlookers with a wave of his hand, and Bilbo turned his head to watch the servants and healers all file out, leaving only himself and Thranduil.  And two guards that took up positions on opposite sides of the tent—one by the entrance and one behind the king.

With a great deal of willpower, Bilbo set aside his fork.  He had many questions, but right now only one was of any importance.

“What happened?”

Thranduil frowned into the depths of his goblet.  “A great many things have happened.  You’ll need to be more specific.”

“You know very well what I mean to ask!” Bilbo said.  “The battle.  What’s happened with the battle?  I can't remember anything after… well, I suppose after Gandalf came to warn us about the orcs.  I remember we were preparing ourselves, gathering armor and weapons and such, but…"

He trailed off, helpless to piece together what few snippets remained to him.  It was all noise and pain and confusion, jumbled up and tangled with a dreadful sense that the world had moved on without him.

Thranduil hummed, infuriatingly calm and still not bothering to look at him.  "My healers were concerned you might suffer some degree of memory loss due to your head injury.  It seems they were correct."

Bilbo waited for him to say more and bit back his frustration when nothing was forthcoming.  "If you would be _so kind_ ," he said through gritted teeth, "I would like to know the fate of my friends before you decide to get on with beheading me or whatever it is you have planned."

Finally, Thranduil glanced up.  “Beheading you?”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo coughed and flapped a hand at the guards.  "Am I not your prisoner?  Why else am I here and not among the other wounded?"

“I have no intention of executing you and undoing the work of my healers,” Thranduil said flatly.

“Funny, I don’t believe that.”

Thranduil set his goblet down, fingertips lightly tracing the wood grains in the table.  "If you wish to know of your friends…"

Bilbo leaned forward.  "Yes?"

"Thorin Oakenshield lives, as does his Company," Thranduil said, the glad news delivered with such indifference that they might have been discussing the weather.  "I’ve not seen Thorin or his heirs for myself, but I’ve been assured they no longer require the care of my healers.  Azog the Defiler is slain, and his forces decimated and scattered.  The dwarves of Erebor, the dwarves of the Iron Hills and the men of Laketown are even now sending for further supplies and aid with the promise of gold to all who come.  The Lonely Mountain is once again under the rule of Durin's folk."

Bilbo let the breath whoosh out of him and slumped back in his chair.  "Good.  That's… that's good.  I'm so very glad to hear it."

"Are you?  You rejoice in their survival?"

"What sort of a question is that?" Bilbo demanded.  "If anything, I ought to be asking you the same!  Why are you here?  I thought your business in Erebor was concluded once you got that dratted necklace!  Unless you thought rushing to our rescue would earn you some further reward?"

Thranduil scoffed.  "What use have I for dwarvish gold?  All that I sought, all I have _ever_ sought, were the starlight gems stolen from me by Thror.  You're right, I had no desire or obligation to turn back.  I told Mithrandir as much when he accosted us on our journey back to the Greenwood.  My scouts could not even confirm his warning about a vast army of orcs marching from Dol Goldur.  However…"

His lips pressed together in a thin line.  "…however, as we spoke and argued, my son and my erstwhile guard captain returned from an unsanctioned expedition to the north.  And they brought word of a second army that marched from Gundabad, this one led by Bolg, the spawn of Azog."

"There… there was a _second_ orc army?" Bilbo said, aghast.  " _Two_ armies?"

"And the Gundabad army came upon us not an hour later," Thranduil said.  His eyes grew more distant, caught up in some terrible recollection.  "We fought through the night and ultimately prevailed.  Bolg and much of his army were slain… though we suffered great losses to achieve that victory.  I had no choice then but to accept Mithrandir spoke the truth of Azog and his legions.  And I saw it for myself when we arrived at Erebor late the next morning.  You and your allies fought a desperate and hopeless battle.  You were vastly outnumbered, your fortifications were on the verge of falling beneath the onslaught."

Bilbo held his silence, not knowing what to say.  He tried to form the vision in his mind, the frantic and bloody battle that had taken place.  He _must_ have been there.  Somewhere in the gaps of his memory, he could almost hear the clash of metal and the screams of the dying.  Feel the sweat and blood drenching him in equal measures, the creeping fatigue that made it so hard to even lift his sword…

He stirred when he realized Thranduil was still talking.  "…the Defiler had taken Ravenhill for his stronghold, the better to watch his victory unfold.  It was a simple affair to strike from the northwest, take the fortress back and drive Azog into the open field.  Not long after, Thorin and Bard chose to bring down the gates and lead their peoples in a reckless charge to fight alongside Dain.  The assault on multiple fronts was too much for the wretched creatures, and those that did not flee were swiftly dispatched."

"And Azog?" Bilbo pressed him.  "You said he was slain?"

"By Thorin's own hand.  The Pale Orc threw himself at the sons of Durin in a maddened rage which ultimately cost his life."

Bilbo stared down at his empty plate without seeing it.  _Thorin_ , he thought in anguish, _was I there with you when you fought him?  Was I of any use whatsoever?  Or did you face Azog alone while I took a nap somewhere else?  Well done, Bilbo Baggins.  Let’s just add that to the long list of Things I Should Have Done Better._

"…but I still don't understand," Bilbo said.  "Why turn back at all?  If you had already driven off one army and had nothing further to gain…"

"It was not done out of the goodness of my heart, I assure you," Thranduil said, and his words were as cold as his eyes.  "You owe your gratitude to my son.  It was he who insisted that we lend our aid… and now I must acknowledge it was the best course of action.  A sleeping dragon poses little threat to my people, but an orcish commander of Azog's caliber and bloodlust?  He would have razed the Greenwood and caused much suffering.  Given the choice between Thorin Oakenshield and the Defiler as the ruler of the Lonely Mountain… well, I'm sure even one such as you can understand the concept of a lesser evil."

"Thorin," Bilbo snapped without thinking, "is not evil!  Just because you hold a grudge against his grandfather, that does not give you the right—"

"It gives me _every_ right," Thranduil retorted.  "You saw it with your own eyes when we met at the gates.  He is guilty of the very same weakness and hubris that I once witnessed in Thror.  And yet Thorin is worse, for he has deluded himself that he is somehow infallible and incapable of repeating the same mistakes.  I have seen such cycles again and again in the lives of mortals.  Perhaps he has not succumbed this time, but the sickness of his line _will_ return.  If not in him, then in his descendants."

“Well, at least you know the solution for next time,” Bilbo said with a meaningful nod.  “Just, er… keep a bit of that hair lotion on hand.  Just in case, you know.  After it worked so well to snap him out of it the first time.”

The silence that followed was so absolute that Bilbo nervously fiddled with his napkin and prayed he was not about to bid his head goodbye.  “…could I possibly have some of that wine?"

Thranduil picked up his goblet, took a slow and deliberate sip, then set it back down hard enough to rattle the silverware.  Bilbo took that as a firm _no_.

"Now then, halfling," Thranduil said and regarded Bilbo in a most unnerving way.  "If you’ve finished with your inquiries, I have several of my own."

Ah, _now_ they came to the heart of the matter, the reason why he was in this tent and not with his friends.  Bilbo went to cross his arms and winced when the arm in a sling refused to cooperate.  "What might those be, then?"

“Are you aware that your companions believe you to be dead?”

Bilbo stuttered, convinced at first that he must have misheard.  But Thranduil did not correct himself, and it slowly sunk in that he was deadly serious.

"But… no that can't be!  I'm _very definitely_ alive.  Why would they think such a thing?"

"According to many witnesses," Thranduil said, "during the battle you were attacked from behind and fell from the ramparts.  A search was conducted, but no body was recovered.  It was assumed you had been trampled or torn apart, though Gandalf feared the fleeing orcs may have taken you alive.  He and Beorn set off just after the battle’s end to chase down the stragglers in the hopes of recovering you."

He raised his hand to indicate the tent and the camp at large.  "But it seems, by some incredible luck, you fell into the river that runs beneath the gates of Erebor.  The current swept you away from the thick of the fighting, and you were found by one of my own soldiers not an hour after the wizard left.  You've been here in this camp ever since."

“…but you never told Thorin I was alive?" Bilbo said, the calmness of his words not at all lining up with the gibbering panic inside.  "Have you told _anyone_ that I'm still alive?"

“I saw no reason to give false hope while your fate was still uncertain—”

“ _You insufferable twit!_ ”

Bilbo leapt up from his chair and had to brace his hand on the table against the overwhelming vertigo that threatened to overtake him.  He jabbed a finger at Thranduil regardless, swaying like a drunk, only distantly aware of the guard behind him putting a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"How… _dare_ … you.  How dare you!  All because of what I did to your precious hair—”

"That was not the reason."

"Then what was?" Bilbo shouted.  "How can you possibly justify yourself?  Twelve… no, thirteen days I've been here while you've left my friends to believe I was _ripped apart_ and eaten by orcs—"

"Dwarves are not elves, they will not fade from a mere few days of heartbreak."

" _What do you know of heartbreak?_ " Bilbo cried, and maybe if he had been paying more attention, he would have noticed how Thranduil's hand convulsed around his goblet like he meant to strangle it.  But all he could think of was the Company and the torment they must be going through right now.  Surely the same devastation that Bilbo would have felt if the places were reversed and it was any one of them struck down on the battlefield.  The mere _thought_ of it being Dwalin or Balin, Fili or Kili, Bofur or Bombur… or perish the thought, if it had been _Thorin_ …

"You cannot keep me here," Bilbo said with all the ferocity he could muster.  "I won't allow it!  Whatever punishment you wish to inflict on me, it can wait!  They need to know I'm alright!"

"Very well."

"Very… excuse me, very _what?_ "

Thranduil waved off the guard, who stepped back and resumed her post.  "I said _very well_.  If it is your dearest wish to return to the dwarves, you may go.  I shall not stand in your way."

Bilbo opened and closed his mouth several times.  Sifting through the words in his mind and trying to find the catch.  There must be one, it could not be that simple.  Thranduil would not have gone through all the trouble of hiding him from the dwarves and healing him in secrecy only to release him at the end of it.  But the opening of the tent beckoned behind him, the way to Erebor clear.  If only he could actually walk that far, but Bilbo was willing to give it a go.

He straightened his coat as best he could with one hand and bowed stiffly.  "Right, then.  I'll just… be off.  Back to the mountain.  I thank you for the care of your healers."

Thranduil sipped his wine.  "Would you like a cart and horse?" he offered.  "It is quite a distance to walk for one so small and so recently ill."

Bilbo cleared his throat.  "Yes, I… should like that," he said, still entirely thrown off.  Deciding it was best not to question his good fortune, he turned on his heel and hobbled for the entrance.  "Farewell!"

"Haven't you forgotten something?"

Bilbo froze, hand drifting to his pocket on instinct.  But his ring was still there.  He thought of his acorn next, presumably safe with Thorin, and his missing sword which was likely at the bottom of a river.  Bilbo carried nothing else on his person, certainly nothing of great value, so what could Thranduil possibly be referring to…?

The answer came to him all at once and flooded his insides with ice.  He discreetly searched his pockets, every single one of them just to be sure.  Praying that fate would show him mercy in this moment, hoping against everything that he had not been _that_ careless.  But Bilbo knew in his heart it was not to be.

Breathing deeply and willing himself not to tremble, he turned back to face the elven king.  "What have you done with it?"

Thranduil reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an object wrapped up in a fine embroidered cloth.  This he set down on the table between them, then unfolded the cloth with a flick of his fingers.  And there lay the Arkenstone, shimmering beautifully in the light of the lanterns and making them seem dull by comparison.  It had a peculiar way of drawing the gaze, even for someone like Bilbo who cared little for shiny mathoms.  Certainly, it was the prettiest gem he had ever seen, but there was more to it than that, something he could not quite put into words.  Holding it in his hand for the first time had given him the strangest feeling, as if the stone was happy to be picked up and admired again after all these years.  But of course, that was ridiculous.  Stone was not _alive_ in the same way that trees and flowers were.  Still, at a glance one could understand why Thorin’s grandfather had coveted the Arkenstone and seen it as a sign of divine rule.

And now Thranduil had it.

If Bilbo had once held any hope of Thorin's forgiveness, that hope was in tatters now.

"It would seem I am not the only one you have played for a fool," Thranduil murmured.  "Each time I believe I have the measure of you, I find myself marveling at the contradictions in your person.  A mere halfling of no particular skill or strength, capable of liberating thirteen dwarves from my most heavily guarded prison?  A soft creature of homely comforts who has never held a sword in his life, and yet if the dwarves are to be believed, you have slain goblins and wargs and spiders in defense of your friends.  They mean to pass your name into legend, are you aware?  Your Company speaks very highly of you to all who will listen.  Almost daily the tales are retold of how you faced both Smaug and Azog on behalf of Thorin Oakenshield, thus earning a place in the Company… and in his heart.  Oh yes, Thorin’s deep affection for his burglar is no secret anymore, if it ever was to begin with.”

Thranduil picked up the Arkenstone, and Bilbo had to stifle a physical shudder, berating himself for a fool and a useless burglar who could not even manage the one job he had been hired for in the first place.

"Yet now at last I see your true nature," Thranduil said, practically spitting the words, and Bilbo flinched back from the utter scorn he was met with.  "Nothing more than a common thief, caught fleeing the battlefield with a priceless relic in his pocket.  Perhaps this was your goal all along?  To ingratiate yourself with Thorin's Company, earn their trust, make yourself indispensable, even go so far as to seduce their king… and in the end, it was all for this.  For the very same avarice you have accused me of."

Bilbo made an outraged noise because that really _was_ too far.  His attempt to move closer was halted by that same guard gripping his arm to hold him back.  "I… I did not steal it!  I…"

"How strange.  I don't believe you."

" _I did not steal it!_ "

Thranduil set the stone back down with a sharp _thunk_.  "Well… perhaps not intentionally.  Perhaps it was a spur of the moment decision.  The gold in that mountain is believed to be cursed, even the mightiest among us might understandably succumb.  And then fortune favored you with a battle on the horizon, a chance to slip away with your prize while all eyes were turned elsewhere.  A victimless crime carried out with finesse."

"Do I _look_ like I was trying to escape?" Bilbo said, indicating his wounded arm.  Which he knew very well was not a true denial, but these accusations were so preposterous he had no clue how to defend against them.  He felt lightheaded, his pulse so frantic that he feared the elves could hear it.

"Even the best laid plans may go awry— _silence!_ " Thranduil commanded, and guard clapped a hand over Bilbo’s mouth when he would have screamed his innocence for the whole camp to hear.  The elven king settled back in his chair and looked on Bilbo as one might a snail in their garden, as something to be reviled and disposed of with as little fuss as possible.  "Once, not so very long ago, I might have found a use for this stone.  It would have been a simple affair to bargain one gem for another.  Even a gold-mad king could not have refused.  But thanks to you, I have my diamonds and no need for leverage.  Rather, in the interest of maintaining this fragile peace, I feel a certain obligation to return the Arkenstone to its rightful owner.  Along with the thief who took it.  I'm sure the dwarves would be most grateful for the chance to punish you in accordance with their ways."

Bilbo's eyes widened, a muffled protest escaping him.  Not at the fear of being unjustly sentenced, no… he just couldn't bear the thought of being dragged before Thorin in chains and forced to watch as Thranduil poured these lies in his ear, given no chance to explain or apologize or defend his actions.  He imagined Thorin turning away from him, face twisted with hatred and betrayal, cursing his name and looking back on all their time together as an elaborate deception…

Bilbo wrenched the guard's hand away from his face.  "You've got it all wrong!  I've never stolen a thing in my life, and I haven't started now!  If you'll just listen to me—"

"So you maintain your innocence even now?  You say you have a legitimate reason for why this stone was discovered on your person?"

" _Yes!_ "

Thranduil pondered for what seemed an eternity before he nodded at the guard.  Bilbo nearly toppled over when he was released, the stress too much for his weakened state.  Once again he needed help to reach his chair and took a moment to catch his breath and rub his throbbing shoulder.  But though his first instinct was to blurt out the truth right away, Bilbo held his tongue.  Thranduil would never believe he had taken the Arkenstone for altruistic reasons, for Thorin's own safety and sanity.  He doubted _anyone_ would believe it no matter how true it was.  But what else could he say?  That he had picked it up by accident?  That he hadn't known what it was at first glance?  That Thorin had asked him to keep it safe?  All blatantly obvious fabrications which wouldn't hold up under scrutiny.

Bilbo let his fingers slip into his pocket, seized by the wildest impulse to put on his ring and flee.  Maybe he couldn't run very far in this condition, but he could find a place to hide and lie in wait while Thranduil turned the camp upside down looking for an invisible hobbit.  Then once the search had run its course, he would find a walking stick and some food and make for Erebor at his own pace.  The hardest part would be grabbing the Arkenstone before any of the elves in the tent could react…

Thranduil's gaze fell to his pocket, and Bilbo jerked his hand away from the ring.  He coughed and took a sip of water, the seeds of a new plan taking root.  An insane plan with all manner of things that could go wrong, but he had no time to come up with something better.  Not with Thranduil watching at him expectantly and holding out his open palm in a gesture of _go on_.

"I did not steal it," Bilbo said with far more composure than he felt.  "I cannot steal that which is already mine.  I took the Arkenstone as my fourteenth share of the treasure."

A thrush chirped outside, the only noise to disturb the utter stillness that had fallen over the tent.  Bilbo felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck and willed himself not to quail before that fearsome scowl.

"…do you take me for a fool, halfling?” Thranduil said with great skepticism. “You claim _the Arkenstone_ to be your reward?  Your payment for services rendered?  I do not believe for a moment Thorin Oakenshield would so casually barter away the heirloom of his family.  Not to the likes of _you_.”

Bilbo chose to ignore that last part despite how the wording had irked him.  "And yet, he did.  I can show you… or well, I _could_ if I had my contract on me.  In any case, the wording is very specific.  All those who initially joined in the quest to retake Erebor this past spring have a claim to one fourteenth share of the treasure.  Now as far as I’m aware, no restrictions or exemptions were placed upon this statement.  Meaning the Arkenstone itself has been fair game all along, as just one very small part of that great treasure…"

"You mean to tell me,” Thranduil said, "that Thorin is _aware_ you have claimed the Arkenstone for your own?  That he _permitted_ you to claim it?"

"Well, of course he did!" Bilbo said, lying through his teeth.  "He and Balin wrote the contract, after all.  They would never overlook something so important.  Dwarves are very thorough when it comes to their terms and conditions, I'm sure you’re aware."

Thranduil's jaw tightened.  "Oh yes.  I know _very well_.”

Bilbo nodded, knuckles drumming nervously on the table.  "So… so there you have it.  The Arkenstone is mine, to do with as I will.  And I don't appreciate having it stolen and dangled before my eyes like a carrot!  What was it you hoped to accomplish by exposing my so-called theft?  I’m under no illusions that you actually _care_ whether or not the Arkenstone is returned to the dwarves.  Or… were you just looking for a reason to have me at your mercy?  Did you hope to see me snivel and weep and plead for my wretched life?”

There was no answer, which was all the answer Bilbo needed.  "You did!  Oh, that’s _precisely_ what you wanted, wasn’t it?  Well, so terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I refuse to confess to a crime I did not commit!  Nor will I be begging on bended knee for the return of my property.”

"Your _property_ ,” Thranduil said, every word dripping contempt.  “Halfling, your claim to this stone is as flimsy as spider silk beneath running water.  I don't believe a single word of it."

"Do you know what, I don't care if you believe me or not!" Bilbo said, nearly shouting to cover up his fright.  He could not go back to Thorin without the Arkenstone, nor could he allow Thranduil to smear his name in front of the Company, not before Bilbo had the chance to confess on his own terms.  "Look, if you want to exact revenge on me for what I did in the forest, then at least do it properly!  Throw me in a dungeon, hold me for ransom, color my hair blue, whatever you like.  I've earned as much.  But I _won't_ allow you to hurt Thorin.  Not like this, I will _not_ sit quietly while you flaunt that stone front of him and all his kin!  So… so…”

“So?”

Bilbo took a deep breath and made himself go on before he lost his nerve.  “…so I mean to have it back before I leave this camp.  One way or another."

For the first time since entering the tent, Thranduil blinked.  Slowly, disbelieving.  "Is that meant to be a threat?"

Bilbo leaned forward with the same toothy grin he had used to taunt the spiders.  "Threat?  Goodness no, that would be rude.  It's a promise.  I _will_ take back the Arkenstone.  If you won’t give it to me freely, well… there are other ways.  Or have you forgotten what I'm capable of?  Do you fancy waking up tomorrow with both your eyebrows shaved off?"

The guard behind Thranduil made an odd noise, a sort of half-choked snort which was hastily smothered in a gloved hand.  By the time Thrandruil whipped around, the guard had wrestled his expression back to watchful indifference, and Bilbo couldn't fathom how he stayed so deadpan in the face of his king's ire.

But the nerve-wracking moment passed.  Thranduil turned back to Bilbo, coolly surveying him while he tried his not to blink or drop his gaze or otherwise let on just how feeble his bluff was.  His fingers itched with the need to reach for the ring again, and he gripped the edge of the table to suppress it.

"I still do not believe you,” Thranduil said.  “But tell me regardless… why the Arkenstone?  Of all the precious jewels that mountain contains, of all the rewards you might have demanded, why choose the one thing Thorin Oakenshield values above all else?"

"Tell me first, why the starlight gems?" Bilbo said to buy himself time.  "I've only heard the dwarves' side of the story, something about you not being willing to pay the craftsmen for their work.  But that can't be the whole truth.  You mentioned… at the gates, you said the gems belonged to your wife?"

Before Thranduil could answer, the tent flap was lifted.  A third guard poked his head in.  "My lord, Bard the Dragonslayer is here.  He wishes to speak with you regarding trade matters."

"Have you not told him I am indisposed?" Thranduil said, frowning.

"Yes, my lord, but he insists on waiting as long as necessary."

Thranduil sighed, more exasperated than Bilbo had ever seen.  "Insufferable man.  A single dragon slain by his hand and now he makes demands of kings…”

From outside came heavy footsteps and a familiar, weary voice.  “I can hear you, Thranduil.  And I don’t appreciate having my concerns for the coming winter brushed aside so—”

" _BARD!_ " Bilbo hollered.  He lunged out of his chair and very nearly reached the tent flap before the guard was on him and dragging him back.  "Bard, I'm in here—!"

There was a brief scuffle, then the flap was flung aside as Bard and his son, Bain, came rushing in.  Both gawked at the sight of the hobbit, and behind them just outside the tent, Bilbo could see more of Thranduil’s guards in a standoff with half a dozen of Bard’s men.  No weapons were drawn yet, but the tension was palpable.

“You’re alive” Bain breathed, looking between his father and Bilbo with his mouth hanging open.  “Da, it's Mister Baggins!  He’s alive!”

Bard’s face contorted, and Bilbo immediately felt sick.  He knew the bowman was taking in the whole picture, the sorry physical state that Bilbo was in as well as the guard restraining him.  And it occurred to him too late that his impulsive bid for freedom might have just set off another war.

Bard put a hand back to nudge his son partially behind him.  “What is the meaning of this?”

Thranduil rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, for the first time looking very tired.  "This does not concern you, bowman," he said.

"Has the hobbit been here all this time?" Bard said, one hand flung out in Bilbo's direction.  "The dwarves think he's dead!  They're mourning him!"

"Evidently, they will not be mourning for long."

Bard strode forward and braced his palms on the table.  "No, this goes too far, do not speak as if it were a trifling matter!  Why have you not told Thorin?  He’s _wracked_ with grief, Balin told me he couldn’t leave his bed for days—”

“He _what?_ ” Bilbo cried out.

“—you should have said something the moment you found him!”

“Yes, I agree!"

Thranduil's gaze flicked in his direction, and Bilbo held his breath.  If he followed through with his intention to paint Bilbo as a thief… but surely he could see the futility of it now?  Bilbo had proven he was not about to be cowed by such a threat.  And now they had a witness.  Bard was a decent sort of fellow, one who was unlikely to step back and let Thranduil fling around baseless accusations.  Especially now that his people were utterly dependent on the goodwill of the dwarves, he had all sorts of reasons to be cautious.  There was really no way to tell how the next few minutes would play out, but Bilbo wanted to believe Thranduil looked just a _hair_ less sure of his position.

And that aside…

Still holding the elven king's gaze, Bilbo mustered up the last of his daring Tookish nature.  And he wagged his eyebrows.  _Remember what I'm capable of._

Thranduil showed no outward reaction, but Bilbo could have sworn his face _wavered_ in the light of the lanterns, flawless beauty eclipsed by horrific disfigurement, terrible and frightening to behold.  But the vision was gone in the next breath, and Bilbo wondered woozily if the pain was becoming too much and whether he ought to sit down.

"Well?  What have you to say for yourself?" Bard demanded.  He did not seem to have noticed the odd change in Thranduil's face.  But he did notice the Arkenstone on the table, which sapped the anger from him in an instant.  "Is that… what I think it is?”

Thranduil stood.  With a nod at the guard, Bilbo was released.  He stumbled closer to the menfolk, still dazed and in very real danger of tipping over.  Thankfully, Bain was a good lad and quick to offer his shoulder to an ailing hobbit.

"Bilbo Baggins," Thranduil said, his words careful and measured, "has spent the past thirteen days under the care of my healers, due to his dire injuries and an illness of the lungs that left his body ravaged and on the verge of death.  I will tell you as I have told him, I saw no reason to give the dwarves false hope while his fate remained uncertain.  But now that he is recovered, I have no reason to keep him here.  He may leave… on one condition."

"And that is?"

Thranduil reached up and lowered his hood, the press of his lips showing how loath he was to let anyone see him in this appalling state.  Bilbo sighed.  "Of course… alright, yes, _fine_.  I suppose I did promise I'd fix it if you came back.  I'll write down what you need to do.  But the Arkenstone…?"

"…is no concern of mine," Thranduil said, and Bilbo nearly sagged to the ground in relief.  "Bard of Laketown, you stand as my witness in this.  The halfling had the Arkenstone in his possession when he came into this camp, and it remains with him when he leaves.  I trust you will see him safely back to his companions?”

“I… yes, of course,” Bard said, and the poor man sounded all kinds of wrong-footed.  “I’ll make sure of it.”

Thranduil nodded and strode to the entrance of the tent, calling for the servant outside.  “Fetch a quill and paper.  _Now_.”

And so, Bilbo found himself seated back in his chair and surrounded by impatient elves and men, painstakingly scrawling out the process of restoring one’s natural hair color as best he could from memory.  It took a very long time with his left hand, the minutes crawling by slow and tortuous while his fingers cramped and his shoulder throbbed and everything in him pleaded for rest.  But the sight of the Arkenstone gleaming on the table served as a stern reminder that he could not rest yet.

“There,” Bilbo said.  He finished the last word without any of his usual flourishes and pushed the paper across the table to Thranduil.  “Follow those instructions to the letter, and you’ll have your natural coloring back in no time.”

Thranduil studied the paper closely and shot him a murderous look.  “There are two sets of instructions."

Bilbo smiled thinly.  “And once I’m back among my friends, I’ll send Bard to tell you which is the true remedy.  Of course, you’re free to try them both if you like… but I should warn you that the false one _will_ destroy your hair and leave you bald for many years to come.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes like he was considering the merits of stringing Bilbo up by his feet and whipping the answer out of him.  Then he passed the sheet of paper behind him to the guard who had laughed earlier.  “When the bowman returns, Naednir, you will have the honor of testing this alleged cure upon yourself first.”

The guard blanched.  “Y… Yes, my lord,” he said with a miserable, if dutiful bow.  Bilbo felt rather sorry for him and hoped he had remembered all the correct ingredients and ratios.  It wasn’t as if _he_ dyed his hair on a regular basis, he might have gotten it entirely wrong… but then Thranduil pushed the Arkenstone within his reach, and Bilbo forgot to care.  He breathed much easier once the gem was back in his pocket, thoughts already racing ahead to the moment when he could be with Thorin again and put an end to his sorrow.  If only Bilbo hadn’t taken the Arkenstone in the first place, so much of this nonsense could have been avoided!

“All of this for a few pretty rocks,” Bilbo muttered.

Thranduil paused in the act of leaving the tent.  “You asked me, _why the starlight gems_ ," he said without looking back.  Bilbo half turned in his seat, surprised Thranduil actually meant to give him an answer.  The entire tent seemed to hold its breath, everyone waiting for the king to speak.

"Many centuries ago,” Thranduil said, “when dwarvish ingenuity was at its pinnacle, they perfected a technique that was the envy of the elves.  The ability to take the light of the sun and stars and capture it inside precious gemstones.  Can you imagine it?  The light of pure memory, preserved for ages to come in a vessel that shall never fade or dull or shatter.  There for my people to look upon even after our own memories have begun to fail, grown thin and stretched with the endless millennia."

Thranduil withdrew a single diamond from his breast pocket, which glittered in his palm like a drop of dew on a leaf.  "Such gems take many generations of dwarves to craft.  My beloved wife commissioned them over a thousand years ago, that she might forever cherish the memories of watching our son grow.  However, she perished before she could see them completed.  And though I mourned, I took solace that once the gems were complete, I might still have the means to recall her face, her voice.  For Legolas' sake as well as my own.  Thror knew this and used it as justification to drive the price ever higher.  _Interest_ , he called it, a term I soon learned to despise as much as the dwarf who invoked it.  He believed he could use my grief to keep me beholden to his line, but I was content to wait.  What was another century or two compared to the years I had already waited?  It was only a matter of time before the aging king passed on and I could appeal to his more reasonable descendants."

 _Didn't work out quite the way you imagined,_ Bilbo thought.  He remembered well how Thorin's voice had boomed damningly in the halls of the Woodland realm, Thranduil's offer spurned and spat upon.  For good reason, Bilbo had believed at the time, though now he could see it was all much more complicated than he ever imagined.

"…only too late did I realize my folly," Thranduil said, and Bilbo was astonished to hear his voice break.  "Those long years of waiting, the diamonds ever beyond my reach… it twisted the memories I once held so dear.  Strangled them, choked the life from them.  When I finally held the diamonds in my hands, only then did I realize I had no memories left to fill them with.  None that were not tainted with bitterness and rancor.  And Legolas has known enough of that in his short span of years, I would not have him recall his mother in the same light."

"I… I'm sorry for your loss," Bilbo faltered, not knowing what else to say.  He could only fall back on the Shire convention of polite condolence, which felt inadequate in the face of such unfathomable sorrow.  "If there's anything I can do…"

"You already have."

"Pardon?"

Thranduil passed his hand over the diamond.  It flickered, twinkling like a faraway star.  And from the gem came a burst of woman's laughter, bright and clear as a bell.  Bilbo's heart fairly soared upon hearing it, much the same as when he had walked through Rivendell and listened to the carefree elves gallivanting and singing through the trees.

"The diamonds would have made her smile," Thranduil said softly, "but your little joke would have made her laugh.  I thought I had forgotten it, the sound of her laughter.  But it has come back to me again after all these years, on the whim of a halfling who calls himself a burglar and carries himself with the pride of a dwarf."

He closed his fingers over the diamond and ever-so-tenderly tucked it away out of sight.  "I despise you, Bilbo Baggins.  And yet I must also thank you, for returning to me something more precious than all the starlight these gems contain.  For that alone… I will let you go with your life and honor intact.  Should we meet again, do not give me cause to regret the mercy I have shown you this day."

And with that he was gone, trailed out of the tent by his guards and leaving two speechless men and one befuddled hobbit in his wake.  Bilbo hunched in on himself and cradled his wounded shoulder, very much feeling as if he had aged ten years in the past hour or two.  Had it only been that long since he woke in that little cot in the corner?  He desperately wished to curl up there again and tell Bard that he was no longer taking visitors today.

"Elves," Bard said under his breath.  "Dwarves, too.  I shall never understand any of you for as long as I live.”

"Excuse me, _not_ a dwarf," Bilbo grumbled.  He took a napkin and began to wrap up some of the leftovers from breakfast to take with him.  “What nonsense, just where does he get off comparing me to that lot?  I am a _Baggins_ of _Bag End_ , thank you very much, nowhere near as pigheaded and difficult as some of the dwarves I've met.  And with _far_ better manners, if I say so myself.”

“Indeed,” Bard muttered, watching Bilbo cram hardboiled eggs into his pockets, but he did not elaborate on what exactly he was indeed-ing.  The man only gusted out a sigh and took Bain by the shoulder.  "I need you to ride ahead of us back to Erebor.  No sense in making them wait any longer.  Take a message to one of the dwarves, straight to Thorin or Balin."

"Alright, what should I say?"

"Tell them Master Baggins has been found," Bard said with a reassuring nod to Bilbo, "and we're bringing him back to his Company."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translation:  
> Dartho! Thír hi! (Wait! Look here!)  
> I arkenstone! Nan Aear a Geil! Manen? (The Arkenstone! By the Sea and Stars! How?)
> 
> This would have been done months ago if it weren’t for Thranduil, I swear. All I wanted was for him to open up a little and Say Something Nice For Once, but he was determined to be an asshole for almost ten thousand words straight. Anyway, moving on, hopefully the next chapter won't take me half a year.


End file.
